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rTyHE  Spirit's  trailing  garments  that  have  swept 
Through  all  the  week  along  the  dusty  way, 
Catching  assoilment  from  the  griming  day, 
{Though  oft  aside  the  foot  in  voidance  stept,) — 
Gather  the?n  up  to-night:    they  have  not  kept 
Immaculate  their  whiteness  from  the  clay j 
The  delicate  weftage,  fretting  troubles  fray ; 
The  broidered  hem  —  oft  caught  by  cares  that  crept, 
Brier-like,  along  the  path  —  is  rent  apart, 
Ravelled  and  stained.     Wherefore,  disheartened  one, 
Loosen  these  work-day  vestments  front  thee,  lest, 
Uncleansed  by  Meditation1  s  holy  art, 

Thy  soul  be  found  unfitted  to  put  on 
The  pure,  fair  linen  of  the  Sabbath  rest. 


For  Lovfs 


POEMS  OF  FAITH   AND   COMFORT 


BY 

MARGARET  J.   PRESTON 

AUTHOR    OF    "SILVERWOOD,"    "  OLD    SONG    AND    NEW," 
"CARTOONS,"    ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

ANSON   D.   F.   RANDOLPH  AND    COMPANY 

38  West  Twenty-Third  Street 


Copyright,  1886, 
By  A.  D.  F.  Randolph  and  Company. 


®iufjtraitn  gresa: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


TO 


MY    SISTER     JULIA. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/forlovessakOOpres 


A  very  few  of  the  poems  included  in  this  collec- 
tion have  been  withdrawn  from  two  former  volumes, 
in  order  that  the  present  book  may  bring  together 
such  Religious  Verse  as  the  writer  may  care  to 
preserve. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

I.H.S 13 

To  the  Uttermost 16 

Inasmuch 17 

Rabboni 20 

Chisel- Work 26 

Until  the  End 29 

Comforted 31 

In  the  Hereafter 34 

Veiled  Vision 37 

Questionings 38 

Against  the  Cold 39 

The  Prince's  Honeycomb 42 

The  Geandest  Deed 44 

The  Stirred  Nest 48 

Left  Behind 49 

Anise  and  Cummin 52 

By-and-By 54 

A  Litany  of  Pain 56 

A  Bird's  Ministry 59 

Myrrh-Bearers ' 62 

For  Love's  Sake 64 

Blemished  Offering 68 

A  Year  in  Heaven 70 

Broidery  TVork 74 

The  Boy  of  Tarsus 76 


x  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Whatsoever 79 

In  Simon's  House 81 

Her  Promise 84 

When  Saint  Curysostom  Prayed 86 

The  Everlasting  Yea 88 

Doubt •  .  90 

The  Wedge  of  Gold 91 

Until  the  Day  Break 93 

The  Daily  Drill 95 

"For  the  Love  op  God" 97 

Thirty-fold 99 

Willing 101 

Nomine  Domini 103 

Talitha  Cumi 105 

Read  to  Sleep 107 

That  Day 109 

Aged  Eleven 112 

Saint  Anselm's  Answer 114 

Sanctum  Sanctorum 116 

The  Fig-Merchant 118 

World-Sickness 120 

Here,  or  There 121 

Keeping  his  Word 123 

The  Other  Man 126 

The  Child  Jesus 129 

The  Baby's  Message 133 

Far  or  Near 135 

A  Child's  Service 136 

The  Grit  of  the  Millstone 137 

Too  Tired  to  Pray 139 

Immediately  . 141 

Who  Knoweth? 143 


FOR    LOVE'S    SAKE. 


POEMS, 


I.  H.   S. 


'"r^HOU  art  the  Way !   I  never  should  have  found  Him 

-*-  Whom  long  my  soul  had  sought 

(By  reason  of  the  dazzling  rays  around  Him, 

Wrapped  far  beyond  my  thought)  ; 
I  never  should  have  dared  invade  His  glory 

With  my  low,  grovelling  prayers, 
Nor  come  before  Him  with  the  piteous  story 

Of  all  my  sins  and  cares,  — 
Hadst  Thou,  divinest  One,  not  condescended 

To  Thiue  incarnate  form, 
Wherein  the  majesty  of  Godhead  blended 

With  human  passions  warm. 
For  Thou  hast  taught  me,  when  I  fall  before  Thee 

In  reverence,  worship,  love, 
I  am  adoring,  as  I  thus  adore  Thee, 

The  God  supreme  above. 


14  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

ii. 

Thou  art  the  Truth,  —  the  Logos,  the  eternal 

Reason  and  source  of  all ; 
The  support,  wisdom,  guidance,  light  supernal, 

That  round  Thy  creatures  fall. 
Thou  art  the  satisfying  explanation 

Of  all  that  was  and  is ; 
The  Father's  wondrous  secrets  of  creation 

Are  Thine  no  less  than  His. 
One  hand  He  holds,  and  Thou  dost  lay  Thine  other, 

(Dear  hands  that  once  have  bled !) 
With  just  such  human  touch  as  any  brother 

Might  lay  his,  on  my  head. 
And  I  can  trust  my  ignorance  unto  Thee, 

All  unashamed,  and  bring 
My  heart,  that  it  may  be  enlightened  through  Thee, 

Who  knowest  everything. 

in. 

Thou  art  the  Life !     When  earth  sprang  into  being, 

Thy  word  pronounced  it  fair ; 
When  systems  ranged  themselves,  at  God's  decreeing, 

In  orbit,  Thou  wert  there. 
All  joy,  all  peace,  all  hope  beyond  forecasting, 

All  creatures'  vital  breath, 
Spring  from  the  pangs  that  wrenched  life  everlasting 

Out  of  the  heart  of  death. 


/.  //.  S.  15 

All  good  that  ever  came  to  cheer  the  ages, 

All  providential  grace, 
All  alchemy  of  Nature  that  presages 

Grand  futures  for  our  race,  — 
From  first  to  last  by  Thee  are  generated : 

Yea,  from  a  senseless  clod, 
This  soul  that  praises  Thee,  Thou  hast  created, 

Thou  very  God  of  God ! 

IV. 

Therefore  I  yearn  to  walk  that  way  behind  Thee, 

By  which  Thy  saints  have  gone, 
Through  light,  through  dark,  assured  that  I  shall  find  Thee 

Near,  if  I  follow  on. 
Therefore  I  crave  that  truth  to  clear  my  vision 

From  error's  blinding  blight, 
Whose  mists  o'ercloud,  at  times,  the  pure  elysian 

So  haloed  with  Thy  light. 
Therefore  I  seek  that  Life,  so  through  Thy  merit 

To  me  vouchsafed,  that  I, 
Heir  to  supreme  possessions,  may  inherit 

The  life  that  cannot  die. 
O  Way,  O  Truth,  O  Life !     No  declaration 

From  Thy  dear  lips  could  full, 
Fitted  to  fill,  with  loftier  exultation, 

The  soul  that  grasps  it  all ! 


TO    THE   UTTERMOST. 

/^\P  His  high  attributes,  beyond  the  most, 

^-^     I  thank  my  God  for  that  Omniscient  Eye 
Beneath  whose  blaze  no  secret  thing  can  lie, 

In  His  infinitude  of  being,  lost. 

I  bless  my  God,  I  am  not  wrecked  and  tossed 
Upon  a  sea  of  doubt,  with  power  to  fly 
And  hide,  somewhither  in  immensity, 

One  single  sin,  out  of  His  reckoning  crossed. 

For  even  there,  self-conscious  of  its  ihrall, 

Might  spring  the  terror :  "If  He  knew  the  whole, 
And  tracked  this  skulking  guilt  out  to  its  goal, 

He  could  not  pardon  !  "     But,  or  great  or  small, 
He  knows  the  inmost  foldings  of  my  soul, 

And,  knowing  utterly,  forgives  me  all ! 


INASMUCH. 

r  I  ^HE  day  with  all  its  fervid  hours 
-*-       Of  golden  possibility, 

"Went  down  behind  the  sapphire  sea, 
And  that  dull  sense  of  squandered  powers, 
Before  whose  waste  the  conscience  cowers, 

"Was  all  those  hours  had  left  for  me. 

Remorsefully  I  bowed  my  head, 

And  sighed  :  "  Ah,  Lord,  Thy  heart  doth  know 

I  would  not  have  the  record  so 
Written  above  the  day  that 's  dead,  — 
Its  doing  and  undoing  done.     Instead, 

My  love  had  fanned  a  zeal  whose  glow 

"  "Waited  my  touch  to  leap  to  flame ; 
I  felt  the  inbreathed  power  to  write 
"Words  that  Thy  spirit  should  indite ; 

And  when  I  named  Thy  sacred  Name, 

The  cloven  inspiration  came, 
As  with  a  pentecostal  might. 
2 


18  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

"  I  had  no  other  thought  to  sing 
Than  for  Thy  glory  ;  since  I  knew 
No  bird  went  breasting  up  the  blue, 
With  throb  of  throat  and  strain  of  wing, 
That  did  not  in  its  measure  bring 
Accepted  service,  pure  and  true. 

"  That  rapture  past,  I  planned  a  deed 
Of  costly  effort  for  Thy  sake, 
In  which  I  charged  that  self  should  take 
No  slightest  share,  nor  flesh  have  heed, 
Nor  shrinking  will  have  let  to  plead, 
Nor  heart  betray  a  conscious  ache. 

"  And  now  the  day  within  whose  scope 
I  set  my  deeds  is  dead  and  done, 
And  all  my  aims  are  missed.     Not  one 
Of  those  with  which  I  thought  to  cope 
In  dauntlessness  of  faith  and  hope, 
Has  even  so  much  as  been  begun." 

As  thus  I  moaned  my  self-complaint, 
Across  the  midnight  seemed  to  loom 
A  vision,  and  athwart  the  gloom 
A  whisper  fell,  so  sweet,  so  faint, 
That  I  looked  up  with  strange  constraint, 
And  lo  !  a  brightness  swam  the  room. 


INASMUCH.  19 

I  sank  o'erawed;  and  as  I  lay 

With  downward  face,  a  dream  of  voice 
Drifted  above.     It  said  :  "  Rejoice  ! 

Thy  dead  day,  wept  for,  lives,  —  a  day 

Vital  with  action,  though  it  may 

Have  brought  but  failure  to  thy  choice. 

"  Thy  work  undone,  I  take  as  though 
Wrought  to  completion  ;  and  the  strain 
That  throbs,  unsung,  within  thy  brain, 

I  hear  in  all  its  overflow, 

And  know  as  thou  canst  never  know 
The  silent  music  born  of  pain. 

"  'T  was  /  who  bade  the  hindrance  stir 

Thy  soul  from  singing  ;  /who  laid 

My  hand  upon  thy  hands,  and  stayed 
Their  chosen  purpose,  while  to  her 
Who  suffered,  as  a  minister 

/sent  thee,  erranding  mine  aid. 

"  And  inasmuch  as  thou  hast  brought 
Thy  draught  of  water,  deemed  so  small ; 
And  inasmuch  as  at  My  call    ' 
Thou  didst  the  work  thou  hadst  not  sought,  — 
As  double  deeds,  wrought  and  unwrought, 
I,  needing  none,  accept  them  all." 


RABBONI. 


/^\F  all  the  nights  of  most  mysterious  dread, 
^-^     This  elded  earth  hath  known,  none  matched  in  gloom 
That  crucifixion  night  when  Christ  lay  dead, 
Sealed  up  in  Joseph's  tomb ! 

ii. 
No  faith  that  rose  sublime  above  the  pain, 

Remembered  in  its  anguish  what  He  said : 
"  After  three  days,  and  I  shall  rise  again,"  — 
Their  hopeless  hearts  were  dead. 

in. 

Throughout  that  ghastly  "  preparation-day  " 

How  had  the  stricken  mother  dragged  her  breath ! 
Like  all  of  Adam  born,  her  God-given  lay 
Beneath  the  doom  of  death. 

IV. 

The  prophecy  she  nursed  through  pondering  years 

Of  apprehension,  now  had  found  its  whole 
Fulfilment,  infinite  beyond  her  fears,  — 
The  sword  had  pierced  her  soul ! 


RABBOXI.  21 

v. 

The  vehement  tears  of  Peter  well  might  flow, 

Mixed  with  the  wormwood  of  repentant  shame  ; 
Now  would  he  yield  his  life  thrice  told,  if  so 
He  might  confess  the  name 

VI. 

He  had  denied  with  curses.     Fruitless  were 

The  keen  remorses  now,  the  gnawing  smart ; 
A  heavier  stone  than  sealed  the  sepulchre 
Was  rolled  above  his  heart. 

VII. 

Surprise  and  grief  and  baffled  hopes  sufficed 

To  rush  as  seas,  their  souls  and  God  between  ; 
Yet  none  of  all  had  mourned  the  buried  Christ 
As  Mary  Magdalene. 

VIII. 

When  all  condemned,  He  bade  her  live  again  ; 
When  all  were  hard,  His  pity  poured  above 
Her  penitent  spirit,  healed  it,  cleansed  its  stain, 
And  made  it  pure  with  love. 

IX. 

And  she  had  broken  all  her  costliest  store 

O'er  Him  whose  tenderness,  so  new,  so  rare, 
Stood  like  a  strong,  white  angel  evermore 
'Twixt  her  and  mad  despair. 


22  FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 

x. 

And  He  was  dead  !  Her  peace  had  died  with  Him  ! 

The  demons  who  had  fled  at  His  control, 
With  seven-fold  chains  within  their  dungeons  dim, 
"Would  henceforth  bind  her  soul. 

XI. 

How  slowly  crept  the  Sabbath's  endless  week  ! 

What  aching  vigils  watched  the  lingering  day, 
When  she  might  stagger  through  the  dark  and  seek 
The  garden  where  He  lay  ! 

XII. 

And  when  she  thrid  her  way  to  meet  the  dawn, 

And  found  the  gates  unbarred,  a  grieving  moan 
Brake  from  her  lips : "  Who  "  —  for  her  strength  was  gone- 
"  Will  roll  away  the  stone  ?  " 

XIII. 

She  held  no  other  thought,  no  hope  but  this : 

To  look,  —  to  touch  the  sacred  flesh  once  more,  — 
Handle  the  spices  with  adoring  kiss, 
And  help  to  wind  Him  o'er 

XIV. 

With  the  fair  linen  Joseph  had  prepared,  — 

Lift  reverently  the  wounded  hands  and  feet, 
And  gaze,  awe-blinded,  on  the  features  bared, 
And  drink  the  last,  most  sweet, 


RABBOXI.  23 

xv. 

Divine  illusion  of  His  presence  there  ; 

And  then,  the  embalming  done,  with  one  low  cry 
Of  utmost,  unappeasable  despair, 

Seek  out  her  home,  and  die. 

XVI. 

Lo  !  the  black  square  that  showed  the  open  tomb  ! 

She  sprang,  —  she  entered  unafraid,  —  and  swept 
Her  arms  outstretching,  groping  through  the  gloom, 
To  touch  Him  where  He  slept. 

XVII. 

Her  trembling  fingers  grasped  the  raiment  cold, 

Pungent  with  aloes,  lying  where  He  lay  : 
She  smoothed  her  hands  above  it,  fold  by  fold,  — 
Her  Lord  was  stolen  away ! 

XVIII. 

And  others  came  anon,  who  wept  Him  sore,  — 
Simon  and  John,  the  women  pale  and  spent 
With  fearful  watchings  ;  wondering  more  and  more, 
They  questioned,  gazed,  —  and  went. 

XIX. 

Not  thus  did  Mary.     Though  the  lingering  gloom 

Pearled  into  brightness,  and  the  city's  stir 
Came  floating  upward  to  the  garden  tomb, 
There  was  no  dawn  for  her : 


24  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

xx. 

No  room  for  faintest  hopes  nor  utmost  fears  ; 

For  when  she,  sobbing,  stooped,  and  saw  the  twain 
White-clothed  angels,  through  her  falling  tears, 
Sit  where  her  Lord  had  lain, 

XXI. 

And  ask,  "Why  weepest  thou?"  there  brake  no  cry, 

But  she  with  deadened  calm  her  answer  made : 
"  Because  they  have  taken  away  my  Lord,  and  I 
Know  not  where  He  is  laid." 

XXII. 

Was  it  a  step  upon  the  dewy  grass  ? 

Was  it  a  garment  rustled  by  the  wind  ? 
Did  some  hushed  breathing  o'er  her  senses  pass, 
And  draw  her  looks  behind  ? 

XXIII. 

She  turned  and  saw  —  the  very  Lord  she  sought,  — 

Jesus,  the  newly  risen  !  .  .  .  but  no  surprise 
Held  her  astound  and  rooted  to  the  spot ; 
Her  filmed  and  holden  eyes 

XXIV. 

Had  only  vision  for  the  swathed  form  ; 

Nor  from  her  mantle  lifted  she  her  face, 
Nor  marvelled  that  the  gardener's  voice  should  warm 
With  pity  at  her  case  ;  — 


RABBONI.  25 

XXV. 

Till  sprang  the  sudden  thought,  M  If  he  should  know  "  — 

And  then  she  turned  full  quickly :  "  Sir,  I  pray, 
Tell  me  where  thou  hast  borne  Him,  that  I  may  go 
And  take  Him  thence  away." 

XXVI. 

The  resurrection  morning's  broadening  blaze 
Shot  up  behind,  and  clear  before  her  sight 
Centred  on  Jesus  its  transfiguring  rays, 
And  haloed  Him  with  light. 

XXVII. 

u  Mary  !  "  —  The  measureless  pathos  was  the  same 

As  when  her  Lord  had  said,  "  Thou  art  forgiven  :  " 
Had  He,  for  comfort,  named  her  by  her  name 
Out  from  the  height  of  heaven  ? 

XXVIII. 

She  looked  aloft,  —  she  listened,  turned,  and  gazed  ; 

A  marvellous  revelation  swept  her  brow  ; 
One  moment, — and  she  prostrate  fell,  amazed, 
Raptured  —  u  Rabboni ! —Thou  !  " 


CHISEL-WORK. 


"TT  IS  the  Master  who  holds  the  mallet, 

-*■  And  day  by  day 

He  is  chipping  whate'er  environs 

The  form,  away : 
Which,  under  His  skilful  cutting, 

He  means  shall  be 
Wrought  silently  out  to  beauty 

Of  such  degree 
Of  faultless  and  full  perfection, 

That  angel  eyes 
Shall  look  on  the  finished  labor 

With  new  surprise 
That  even  His  boundless  patience 

Could  grave  His  own 
Features  upon  such  fractured 

And  stubborn  stone. 


CHISEL-WORK. 

ii. 

'T  is  the  Master  who  holds  the  chisel  •, 

He  knows  just  where 
Its  edge  should  be  driven  sharpest, 

To  fashion  there 
The  semblance  that  He  is  carving ; 

Nor  will  He  let 
One  delicate  stroke  too  many, 

Or  few,  be  set 
On  forehead,  or  cheek,  where  only 

He  sees  how  all 
Is  tending,  and  where  the  hardest 

The  blow  should  fall, 
"Which  crumbles  away  whatever 

Superfluous  line 
Would  hinder  His  hand  from  making 

The  work  divine. 

in. 

With  tools  of  Thy  choosing,  Master, 

We  pray  Thee,  then, 
Strike  just  as  Thou  wilt ;  as  often, 

And  where,  and  when 
The  vehement  stroke  is  needed. 

We  will  not  mind, 
If  only  Thy  chipping  chisel 

Shall  leave  behind 


28  FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 

Such  marks  of  Thy  wondrous  working 

And  loving  skill, 
Clear  carven  on  aspect,  stature, 

And  face,  as  will, 
When  discipline's  ends  are  over, 

Have  all  sufficed 
To  mould  us  into  the  likeness 

And  form  of  Christ. 


UNTIL   THE   END. 

/T^0  do  God's  will  — that's  all 
-*-       That  need  concern  us  :  not  to  carp  or  ask 
The  meaning  of  it ;  but  to  ply  our  task, 

Whatever  may  befall, 
Accepting  good  or  ill  as  He  shall  send, 
And  wait  until  the  end. 

What  if  a  spire  of  grass 
Should  dare  assert  itself  against  His  power, 
And  question  wherefore  He  withheld  the  shower, 

Or  let  the  tempest  pass 
To  shred  its  stem  and  pour  its  juices  out, 

Or  shrivel  it  with  drought ! 

Each  atom  God  hath  made 
Yields  to  His  primal  law,  obedience  true, 
Whether  it  be  a  star,  or  drop  of  dew, 

Forest  or  ferny  blade. 
Should  one  resist,  the  world  would  feel  the  spell : 

"  Behold  !  a  miracle  !  " 


30  FOR   LOVE'S  SAKE. 

If  Nature  thus  can  bow, 
With  acquiescence  absolute,  profound, 
Before  the  mysteries  that  gird  her  round, 

Nor  ever  disallow 
The  pressure  of  the  Hand  above  her,  why 

Should  not  this  conscious  I? 

Wherefore  is  man  so  loath, 
Without  presumptuous  quest  into  the  cause 
Of  this  or  that,  in  God's  inviolate  laws, 

To  trust,  as  Nature  doth, 
Content,  although  he  may  not  comprehend, 

To  wait  until  the  end ! 


COMFORTED. 

npHERE  are  who  tell  me  I  should  be 
-*•       So  firm  of  faith,  so  void  of  fear, 
So  buoyed  by  calm,  courageous  cheer, 

(Assured,  through  Christ's  security, 
There  is  a  place  prepared,)  that  I 
Should  dare  not  be  afraid  to  die. 

They  question  of  the  nameless  dread, 
With  lifted  brow,  as  if  I  let 
Unreasoning  foretastes  overfret 

My  soul  unduly,  while  I  tread 
A  path  self-clouded,  underneath 
The  ever-conscious  chill  of  death. 

They  babble  of  the  fuller  life, 

Unswaddled  of  the  mummied  clay, 
Whose  cerements  hide  the  upper  day, 

That  shines  serene  above  the  strife 
Of  this  poor  charnel  crypt,  and  cry, 
That  they  are  happiest  still,  who  die. 


32  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

Who  holds  it  cowardice  to  shrink 
Before  the  fearful  truth,  that  none 
Of  all  Time's  myriads,  —  never  one 

Whose  feet  have  crossed  the  fatal  brink, 
Has  ever  come  to  breathe  our  breath 
Again,  and  tell  us  what  is  death  ? 

We  know  that  into  outmost  space, 

Snatched  sheer  of  earth,  the  spirit  goes 
Alone,  stark,  silent ;  but  who  knows 

The  awful  whitherward  ?  —  the  place 
Which  never  deepest-piercing  eye 
Had  glimpse  of,  into  which  we  die  ? 

Who  knows  ?  —  God  only.     On  His  word 
I  wholly  rest,  I  solely  lean,  — 
The  single  voice  that  sounds  between 

The  Eternities !     No  soul  hath  heard 
One  whisper  else,  one  mystic  breath 
That  can  reveal  the  why  of  death. 

I  think  of  all  who  've  passed  the  strife  : 
Pale  women,  who  have  failed  to  face 
With  bravery  of  common  grace 

Their  daily  apprehensive  life, 

Who  yet,  with  straining  arms  stretched  high 
Through  ecstasy,  could  smile,  and  die  ;  — 


COMFORTED.  33 

Of  little  children,  who  would  scare 
To  walk  beneath  the  dark  alone, 
Unless  some  hand  should  hold  their  own, 

"Who  've  met  the  terror  unaware, 

Nor  knew,  while  breathing  out  their  breath, 
The  angel  whom  they  saw  was  Death ! 

And  I  am  comforted  :  because 

The  love  that  bore  these  tremblers  through 

Can  fold  its  strength  about  me  too, 
And  I  may  find  my  quailing  was, 

As  theirs,  a  phantom  that  will  fly, 

Dawn-smitten,  when  I  come  to  die. 


Therefore  I  cleave  with  simple  trust, 
Amid  my  hopes,  amid  my  fears, 
Through  the  procession  of  my  years,  — 

The  years  that  bear  me  back  to  dust, 
And  cry,  "  Ah,  Christ,  if  Thou  be  nigh, 
Strong  in  Thy  strength,  I  dare  to  die  ! " 


IN  THE   HEREAFTER. 

T  SOMETIMES  ask  myself  if  I  could  be 
"■-     Happy  in  heaven,  were  all 
Life's  holiest  memories  blotted  out  for  me, 
That  hold  my  heart  in  thrall ; 

The  hour  of  rapture,  the  supreme  delight 
That  thrilled  some  rarest  day, 

The  sacrament  of  love,  too  marvellous  bright 
Ever  to  "pass  away ; 

The  rapt  and  fine  elation,  when  the  mind 

Seemed  caught  away  as  far 
As  if  we  left  all  earthly  things  behind 

And  touched  some  distant  star ;  — 

If  all  be  swept  from  memory,  and  no  more 

A  recognition  win 
Than  if  no  breathing  life  had  gone  before  — 

Than  if  they  had  not  been. 


IN   THE  HEREAFTER.  35 

I  think  the  heavenly  heights  would  shine  more  fair, 

Its  waters  softer  flow, 
If  you  and  I  could  walk  together  there, 

And  talk  of  long  ago. 

No  spirit  from  amid  the  seven-fold  band, 

That  nearest  sees  the  Throne, 
Could  hold  such  converse  —  know  or  understand 

What  you  and  I  have  known. 

Angelic  sinlessness  would  seem  to  me 

A  something  too  divine, 
Touched  with  no  feeling  of  infirmity 

As  links  your  soul  with  mine. 

Amid  the  splendors,  wondrous,  manifold, 

That  sight  and  sense  would  fill, 
I  think,  —  I  think  the  simple  bliss  of  old 

Would  even  haunt  me  still. 

As  sometimes  when  our  life's  supremest  power 

Has  reached  its  acme,  then 
We  would  surrender  all,  just  for  one  hour 

To  be  a  child  again  ; 

So  in  some  dim  and  quiet  spot  of  rest, 

With  the  far  Throne  in  view, 
I  dare  to  feel  't  would  sometimes  seem  the  best 

To  sit  and  talk  with  vou ; 


36  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

And  there  unravel  all  the  mystic  skein 

Of  joy  and  pain  and  woe, 
And  read,  as  on  a  tablet  written  plain, 

All  we  have  pined  to  know. 

The  tender  things,  the  nameless  ministries 
That  once  made  life  so  fair,  — 

The  sweet  experience  of  a  thousand  things,  — 
Could  any  angel  share  ? 

Nay,  let  me  hold  the  sweet  conclusion  fast, 
That  the  pure  memories  given 

To  help  our  joy  on  earth,  when  earth  is  past, 
Shall  help  our  joy  in  heaven  ! 


VEILED   VISION. 

TF  suddenly  there  stood  to  us  revealed 

-*■     The  world  of  spirits,  that  may  be  so  near,  — 

Not,  as  we  dream,  some  far,  unreckoned  sphere, 

But  close  to  us  as  heart-beat,  though  concealed 

As  were  the  fiery  chariots  all  afield, 

Girdling  the  prophet,  till  a  touch  made  clear 

His  curtained  sight,  to  what  ignoble  fear, 

And  shame,  and  self-reproach  our  souls  would  yield  ! 

We  might  behold  our  darling  dead,  their  eyes 
Clouded  through  wonder  at  our  empty  days  ; 
Sad  with  vast  pity  for  our  waste  and  woe, 
Our  mad  mistakes,  our  blind  and  grovelling  ways, 
Our  cold  forgetting  !     Yet  God's  angels  so 
Do  watch  us  with  a  mystery  of  surprise. 


QUESTIONINGS. 

i. 

WITH  such  a  grovelling  heart,  how  can  I  dare 
Ask  Thee,  my  Lord,  to  make  Thy  dwelling  there? 

—  Because  the  Bethlehem  stable  Thou  didst  share. 

ii. 

With  restless  passions  surging  like  a  sea, 
How  can  I  think  to  find  repose  from  Thee  ? 

—  Because  Thy  voice  hushed  stormy  Galilee. 

in. 
With  guilt's  defilement  stained  without,  within, 
How  can  I  hope  Thy  cleansing  grace  to  win  ? 

—  Because  Thou  saidst,  "  I  have  forgiven  thy  sin." 

IV. 

With  earth's  poor,  caresome  toilings  tired,  oppressed, 
What  right  have  I  to  lean  upon  Thy  breast  ? 

—  Because  Thou  offeredst  to  the  weary,  rest. 

v. 

With  soul-affections  stony-cold  and  dead, 
What  claim  have  I  to  plead  for  life  instead  ? 

—  Because  in  Joseph's  tomb  was  laid  Thy  head. 


AGAINST  THE   COLD. 

Peter  stood  and  warmed  himself.  —  Saint  John. 

'T^HE  very  Christ  for  whom  he  bore 
-*-       Such  brave,  bold  witness,  but  a  few 
Brief  days  agone  —  the  Christ  he  knew 
Had  raised  from  death  one  week  before 
His  friend  at  Bethany  —  he  saw 
Now  in  the  clutch  of  Roman  law, 
Reproached,  dishonored,  helpless,  lone, 
Dragged  rudely  o'er  the  pavement  stone, 
And  —  stood  and  warmed  himself! 

He  watched  the  jeering  soldiers  strip 
Away  the  robe  the  Marys  made, 
Tear  off  the  inner  garment  frayed 
By  brutal  wrenchings ;  marked  the  lip 
Quiver,  as  o'er  the  flesh  made  bare 
Blew  gusts  of  chilling  midnight  air ; 
Yet  by  the  sight  not  stricken  dead, 
Above  the  brazier's  coals  he  spread 
His  hands  —  and  warmed  himself ! 


40  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

He  heard  a  maid  say,  "  Here,  behold ! 
One  of  this  man's  disciples  :  see, 
He  speaks  the  speech  of  Galilee." 
Ah  then  —  ah  then  his  blood  ran  cold, 
And  as  the  leaping  flame  rose  higher, 
Amid  the  crowd  that  girt  the  fire, 
With  sharp,  reiterate,  angry  "  Nay  !  " 
He  thrust  his  arms,  and  pressed  his  way, 
And  crouched  —  and  warmed  himself ! 

"Yea,  thou  art  one  of  them,"  —  he  heard 
The  charge  come  back  and  back  again, 
Tossed  from  the  mouth  of  mocking  men  ; 
And  as  with  oaths  he  flung  the  word 
Straight  in  their  teeth,  he  sudden  turned  — 
And  oh,  that  look !     It  burned  and  burned, 
As  if  Gehenna's  hottest  coal 
Had  down  into  his  central  soul 

Dropped,  while  he  warmed  himself  ! 

His  hands  he  could  no  more  uphold, 
Remorse,  despair,  self-loathing,  woe, 
Clutched  at  his  heart ;  he  did  not  know 
If  it  were  night,  —  if  it  were  cold ; 
He  cast  no  gaze  behind,  before, 
Nor  cared  that  she  who  kept  the  door 
Said,  "  Surely  this  was  he  who  drew 
The  sword  on  Malchus,  —  Malchus  knew, 
The  while  he  warmed  himself !  " 


AGAINST   THE   COLD.  41 

Remorseful  on  the  ground  he  Lay, 
So  sunk  in  self-abhorrent  shame 
He  dared  not  breathe  the  Master's  name. 
Recounting,  till  the  dawn  of  day. 
How  through  that  mystic  anguish  dim, 
He  had  not  spoken  a  word  for  Him, 
Forsaken  in  the  high-priest's  hall, 
But  midst  the  mocking,  watched  it  all, 
And  stood  and  warmed  himself  ! 

So  do  we  still :  we  skulk  afar, 

With  scarce  the  scoffed-at  Christ  in  sight, 
Xor  dare  the  wrong,  nor  brave  the  right, 

Poor,  cowardly  cravens  that  we  are ! 

And  while  we  see  our  Lord  betrayed, 

We  linger  mid  his  foes,  afraid 

To  own  Him ;  yet  like  him  of  old, 

We  comfort  us  against  the  cold, 

And  stand  and  warm  ourselves ! 


THE   PRINCE'S   HONEYCOMB. 

["  WAS  discomfited  and  sick  and  sad, 
•*■     By  reason  of  the  way  ; 
For  God's  exhaustless  store  of  promise  had 
Been  overlooked  that  day. 

And  I  was  weak  to  faintness  with  the  weight 

Of  trials  undergone  ; 
This  way  and  that  I  looked  disconsolate, 

And  blindly  stumbled  on. 

Within  my  hand  I  held  the  pilgrim's  rod, 

But  in  my  hunger-grief, 
Disusing  it,  I  had  forgotten  God, 

In  sudden  unbelief. 

When  all  at  once,  amid  the  jagged  ways 
Through  which  I  panting  clomb, 

I  found  right  in  my  footpath,  with  amaze, 
A  dropping  honeycomb. 


THE  PRINCE'S  HONEYCOMB.  43 

I  asked  not  who  had  sent  it :  all  I  knew 

Was  that  my  need  was  sore ; 
I  dipped  my  rod,  and  from  its  sweetness  drew, 

And  I  was  faint  no  more  ! 

O  hearts  that  yearn,  like  princely  Jonathan's, 

O'ermastered  by  the  strife 
That  starves  the  aims  and  circumvents  the  plans 

Of  all  the  loftier  life ;  — 

O  souls  that  stagger  under  doubt's  eclipse, 

Let  but  some  promise  be 
The  Prince's  honeycomb  unto  your  lips  — 

And  how  your  eyes  will  see ! 


THE   GRANDEST   DEED. 


'  I  "'HE  myriad  messengers  of  God 

-*■       Before  the  central  throne 
"Waited,  attent  to  fly  abroad 

And  make  His  errands  known 
"Wherever  foot  of  man  had  trod 
Or  angel  wing  had  flown. 

Nor  any  asked,  if  great  or  small 
The  task,  his  portioned  share ; 

A  kingdom's  or  a  sparrow's  fall 
They  held  an  equal  care ; 

His  work,  the  same,  supreme  in  all, 
Who  governs  everywhere. 

ii. 

One  spirit  to  a  world  afar 

In  utmost  ether  went ; 
And  one  to  seek  a  new-born  star, 

On  mission  vast  intent ; 
And  one,  where  circling  systems  are 

Uncatalogued,  was  sent. 


THE   GRANDEST  DEED.  45 

Came  one,  — the  mightiest.     O'er  his  face 

He  spread  his  veiling  wing, 
To  soften  the  effulgent  blaze 

Of  God's  forthshadowing, 
And  craved  that  he  to  heaven's  high  praise 

Some  added  joy  might  bring. 

in. 
To  him  the  errand  fell :  "  Thou  seest 

Where  yonder  spark  doth  shine 
Beneath  thee,  —  one  among  the  least 

Of  these  fair  worlds  of  Mine ; 
Yet  honored  even  above  the  rest 

By  gifts  the  most  divine. 

"  Go  tell  its  dwellers  how  My  Christ, 

Through  human  guise,  made  dim 
The  glory  that  in  heaven  sufficed 

To  dazzle  cherubim  ; 
And  bid  them,  other  faiths  despised, 

Believe  alone  in  Him." 


i. 

Again  before  the  emerald  throne, 

The  messengers  of  God 
Stood  flushed  with  tidings  ;  they  had  gone 

Through  worlds  on  worlds  abroad, 


46  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

Wherever  angel  wing  had  flown, 
Or  foot  of  man  had  trod. 

And  one  had  triumphs  strange  to  tell, 
By  infinite  Wisdom  wrought ; 

And  one  had  works  ineffable, 
To  grand  achievement  brought ; 

And  one  had  mystic  lore,  to  swell 
Seraphic  bound  of  thought. 

ii. 

"  Who  hath  believed  thy  report  ?  "  — 
And  at  the  questioning  word, 

Throughout  the  vast  celestial  court 
Uplifting  wings  were  heard, 

As  if  some  news  of  gladder  sort 
Their  crowding  hosts  had  stirred. 

And  as  the  throb  of  silence  sank 
Where  loud  the  song  had  been, 

They  parted,  seven-fold  rank  on  rank, 
To  let  the  angel  in, 

Who  backward  from  the  radiance  shrank, 
Nor  audience  sought  to  win. 

in. 

Lowly  he  spake  :  "  Thy  word  I  bore 
To  men  by  sin  enslaved  ; 


THE   GRANDEST  DEED.  17 

And  thousands  heard  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

Nor  grace  nor  pardon  craved  ; 
Yet  one  who  never  heard  before,  — 

One  heathen  soul  was  saved." 

Then  through  the  circling  ranks  serene, 

The  joy  that  thrilled  the  whole, 
Brake  forth  in  rapture,  while  between 

Ten  thousand  harpings  stole  : 
—  The  grandest  deed  of  all  had  been 

To  save  that  heathen  soul ! 


THE  STIRRED   NEST. 

r  |  ^00  much  on  earth,  —  too  much  on  what  must  sway 
-*■       With  every  oversweeping  gust  of  time, 

I  've  set  my  hopes,  where  no  rude  care  might  climb, 
Fond  thought !  to  spoil  my  nest,  or  steal  away 
The  cherished  singers  that  for  many  a  day 

Had  cheered  me  with  their  song.     But  the  rough  wind 

Again  and  yet  again  has  wrenched  the  bough, 
And  driven  my  clinging  fledglings  far  and  wide, 
To  wail  the  refuge  which  they  fail  to  find, 

And  fill  my  ear  with  plaintive  moaning  now. 
Where  shall  the  scattered,  homeless  wanderers  hide 

And  build  once  more  ?     Not  here,  where  storms  are 
rife, — 
Not  here,  my  heart !  —  but  where  no  ills  betide, 

In  the  safe  shelter  of  the  Tree  of  Life  ! 


LEFT   BEHIND. 


T  CANNOT  chide  away  the  pain, 

■*•     I  cannot  bid  the  throb  be  still, 

That  aches  and  aches  through  heart  and  brain, 
And  leaves  them  pulsing  to  the  thrill 

Of  overmastering  memories.     They 
Who  never  saw  the  eyelids  close, 

Beneath  whose  shadowing  fringes  lay 
All  that  had  given  to  life  repose, 
Or  charm,  or  hope,  or  ease,  or  joy, 
Or  love  clear  molten  from  alloy,  — 

Who  have  not,  tear-blind,  watched  the  breath, 
That  only  breathed  to  bless  them,  come 
Slower  and  fainter,  till  the  dumb 

Unanswering  lips  grew  white  with  death,  — 
They  cannot  know,  by  grief  untaught, 

What  an  unfathomed  depth  I  find, 
Of  ebbless  anguish  in  the  thought 

That  I  am  left  behind. 
4 


50  FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 

ii. 

What  matters  it  that  other  eyes 

Have  smiles  to  give  me  just  as  sweet, 
Or  softly  other  tongues  repeat 

Endearments  of  as  gentle  guise  ? 

I  only  feel,  that  whatso'er 

Its  melting  tenderness  may  be, 

'T  is  not  the  smile  whose  gracious  cheer 
Was  more  than  all  the  world  to  me : 

I  only  feel,  though  winning-kind 
Is  every  word  that  voice  may  say, 
'T  is  not  the  one  that  passed  away, 

When  I  was  left  behind. 

in. 

I  know,  —  I  know  that  as  of  yore, 
Nature  is  festive  in  her  mirth  ; 

That  still  the  sunshine  shimmers  through 

The  infinite,  palpitating  blue, 

As  goldenly  as  heretofore : 

I  know  this  green  and  billowy  earth 
Tides  underneath  the  smile  of  God, 

As  to  the  moonlight  tides  the  sea  ; 

I  'm  wounded  by  the  mocking  glee, 
I  'm  hurt  by  all  the  joy  abroad. 
The  smiting  blow  that  grief  has  given, 

So  jars  the  mirror  of  my  mind, 


LEFT  BEHIND.  51 

That  everything  of  sweet  or  fair 

Has  but  distorted  reflex  there ; 
And  oh,  the  tears,  —  the  tears  like  rain 
Upon  its  surface  leave  their  stain, 

Since  my  beloved  went  to  heaven,  — 
Since  I  was  left  behind  ! 

IV. 

There  is  a  Hand  that  can  restore 

The  spirit's  equipoise,  till  true, 
In  faith's  unwavering  light  once  more, 

His  image  trembles  back  to  view. 
Dear  Christ !  when  there  Thy  form  appears, 
Let  me  not  blot  it  with  my  tears, 
That  are  not  murmuring  tears,  though  sad  ; 
I  would  be  patient,  —  I  would  find 

How  much  the  thought  can  reconcile, 
Can  lift  me  up  and  make  me  glad, 

That  only  for  a  little  while 
Shall  I  be  left  behind. 


ANISE   AND   CUMMIN. 

WEARY  with  homely  duties  done, 
Tired  through  treading  day  by  day, 
Over  and  over,  from  sun  to  sun, 

One  and  the  same  small  round  alway, 
Under  her  breath  I  heard  her  say : 

"  Oh  for  the  sweep  of  the  keen-edged  scythe ! 

Oh  for  the  swaths,  when  the  reaping 's  o'er  • 
Proof  of  the  toil's  success !     I  tithe 

Anise  and  cummin  —  such  petty  store ! 

Cummin  and  anise  —  nothing  more  ! 

"  Only  a  meagre  garden-space, 

Out  of  the  world  so  rich  and  broad  — 
Only  a  strip  of  standing-place, 
Only  a  patch  of  herb-strown  sod, 
Given,  in  which  to  work  for  God ! 

"  Yet  is  my  hand  as  full  of  care 
Under  the  shine  and  frost  and  rain, 

Tending  and  weeding  and  watching  there, 
Even  as  though  I  deemed  a  wain 
Were  to  be  piled  with  sheaves  of  grain. 


ANISE  AND   CUMMIN.  53 

"  Then,  when  the  work  is  done,  what  cheer 

Have  I  to  greet  me,  great  or  small  ? 
What  that  shall  show  how  year  by  year 
Patient  I  've  wrought  at  duty's  call  ? 
Anise  and  cummin  —  that  is  all !  " 

Turning,  I  raised  the  drooping  head, 

Just  as  I  heard  a  sob  arise : 
"  Anise  and  cummin  and  mint,"  I  said, 

Kissing  her  over  her  aching  eyes, 

"  Even  our  Lord  doth  not  despise. 

"  Think  you  He  looks  for  headed  wheat 

Out  of  your  plot  of  garden-ground  ? 
Think  you  He  counts  as  incomplete 
Service  that  from  such  scanty  bound 
Yields  Him  the  tithing  He  has  found  ? 

"  What  are  to  Him  the  world's  wide  plains  ? 

Him  who  hath  never  a  need  to  fill 
Even  one  garner  with  our  small  gains  ? 
Yet,  if  the  plot  is  yours  to  till, 
Tithe  Him  the  anise  and  cummin  still !  " 


BY-AND-BY. 

WHAT  will  it  matter  by-and-by, 
Whether  my  path  below  was  bright, 
Whether  it  wound  through  dark  or  light, 
Under  a  gray  or  a  golden  sky, 
When  I  look  back  on  it  by-and-by  ? 

What  will  it  matter  by-and-by, 
Whether,  unhelped,  I  toiled  alone, 
Dashing  my  foot  against  a  stone, 
Missing  the  charge  of  the  angel  nigh, 
Bidding  me  think  of  the  by-and-by  ? 

What  will  it  matter  by-and-by, 
Whether  with  dancing  Joy  I  went 
Down  through  the  years  with  a  gay  content, 
Never  believing,  —  nay,  not  I, 
Tears  would  be  sweeter  by-and-by  ? 

What  will  it  matter  by  and-by, 

Whether  with  cheek  to  cheek  I  Ve  lain 
Close  by  the  pallid  angel,  Pain, 

Soothing  myself  through  sob  and  sigh,  — 

"  All  will  be  else  wise  by-and-by  "  ? 


BY-AND-BY. 

What  will  it  matter  ?  —  Nought,  if  I 
Only  am  sure  the  way  I  've  trod, 
Gloomy  or  gladdened,  leads  to  God, 

Questioning  not  of  the  how,  the  why, 

If  I  but  reach  Him  by-and-by. 

"What  will  I  care  for  the  unshared  sigh, 

If,  in  my  fear  of  lapse  or  fall, 

Close  I  have  clung  to  Christ  through  all, 
Mindless  how  rough  the  road  might  lie, 
Sure  He  will  smoothen  it  by-and-by  ? 

What  will  it  matter  by-and-by  ? 

Nothing  but  this:  That  Joy  or  Pain 
Lifted  me  skyward,  —  helped  to  gain, 
Whether  through  rack,  or  smile,  or  sigh, 
Heaven,  —  home,  —  all  in  all,  —  by-and-by  ! 


A  LITANY  OF   PAIN. 


OOMETIMES  when  my  pulses  are  throbbing 
>s— '     With  currents  whose  feverish  flow 
Sets  all  the  strung  spirit  to  sobbing 

With  speechless  yet  passionate  woe, 
I  inwardly  question  and  falter, 

Though  lips  are  too  still  to  complain,  — 
What  profit  to  lay  on  God's  altar 
Oblations  of  pain  ? 

ii. 

Can  He  in  the  infinite  gladness 

That  floods  all  His  being  with  light, 

Complacently  look  on  the  sadness 
That  dares  to  intrude  on  His  sight  ? 

Can  He,  in  His  rhythmic  creation 
Attuned  to  the  chime  of  the  spheres, 

Bear  the  discord  of  moans,  the  vibration 
Of  down-dropping  tears  ? 


A   LITANY  OF  PAIN.  57 

in. 
Would  I,  wholly  human,  foreseeing 

Some  anguish  my  darling  must  face, 
Not  guard,  at  the  risk  of  my  being, 

Its  onset,  or  die  in  his  place  ? 
And  yet  can  the  Father  who  loves  me 

With  love  that 's  supremer,  foreknow 
The  soul-wrench  impending  above  me, 
Nor  ward  off  its  blow  ? 

IV. 

Be  quiet,  poor  heart !  —  Are  the  lessons 

Life  sets  thee  so  hard  to  attain, 
That  thou  know'st  not  their  potentest  essence 

Lies  wrapped  in  the  problem  of  pain  ? 
Even  Nature  such  rudiments  teaches  ; 

The  birth-throe  presages  the  breath  ; 
The  soul  so  high-destinied  reaches 
Its  highest  through  death. 

v. 

No  beaker  is  brimmed  without  bruising 
The  clusters  that  gladden  the  vine ; 

No  gem  glitters  star-like,  refusing 
The  rasp  that  uncovers  its  shine ; 

No  diver  who  shuns  the  commotion 
Of  billows  above  him  that  swirl, 

From  out  of  the  deeps  of  the  ocean 
Can  bring  up  the  pearl. 


58  FOR   LOVE'S  SAKE. 

VI. 

And  He  who  is  moulding  the  spirit 
For  ends  that  are  grander  than  this, 

Who  is  training  it  here  to  inherit 
Such  stores  of  ineffable  bliss,  — 

He  gauges  the  weight  He  is  piling ; 
He  tempers  the  surge  with  a  touch ; 

There  '11  not  be  a  graze  of  His  filing 
Too  little  —  too  much ! 

VII. 

Then  patiently  suffer,  and  trust  Him 
For  all  that  thy  cravings  can  ask ; 

Nor  dare  with  thy  murmurs  to  thrust  Him 
Aside  from  His  discipline's  task : 

Nor  question  His  goodness,  nor  falter, 
Nor  say  that  thy  service  is  vain, 

Though  still  thou  must  lay  on  His  altar, 
Burnt-offerings  of  pain ! 


A  BIRD'S   MINISTRY. 

FROM  his  home  in  an  Eastern  bungalow, 
In  sight  of  the  everlasting  snow 
Of  the  grand  Himalayas,  row  on  row, 

Thus  wrote  my  friend :  — 

"  I  had  travelled  far 
From  the  Afghan  towers  of  Candahar, 
Through  the  sand-white  plains  of  Sinde-Sagar ; 

"  And  once,  when  the  daily  march  was  o'er, 

As  tired  I  sat  in  my  tented, door, 

Hope  failed  me,  as  never  it  failed  before. 

"  In  swarming  city,  at  wayside  fane, 

By  the  Indus's  bank,  on  the  scorching  plain, 

I  had  taught,  —  and  my  teaching  all  seemed  vain. 

"  '  No  glimmer  of  light,'  I  sighed,  '  appears  ; 
The  Moslem's  Fate  and  the  Buddhist's  fears 
Have  gloomed  their  worship  this  thousand  years. 


60  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

"  '  For  Christ  and  His  truth  I  stand  alone 
In  the  midst  of  millions  :  a  sand-grain  blown 
Against  yon  temple  of  ancient  stone, 

"  <  As  soon  may  level  it ! '     Faith  forsook 
My  soul  as  I  turned  on  the  pile  to  look : 
Then  rising,  my  saddened  way  I  took 

"  To  its  lofty  roof,  for  the  cooler  air : 

I  gazed,  and  marvelled ;  how  crumbled  were 

The  walls  I  had  deemed  so  firm  and  fair  ! 


"  For,  wedged  in  a  rift  of  the  massive  stone, 
Most  plainly  rent  by  its  roots  alone, 
A  beautiful  peepul-tree  had  grown, 

"  Whose  gradual  stress  would  still  expand 

The  crevice,  and  topple  upon  the  sand 

The  temple,  while  o'er  its  wreck  should  stand 

"  The  tree  in  its  living  verdure  !     Who 

Could  compass  the  thought  ?     The  bird  that  flew 

Hitherward,  dropping  a  seed  that  grew, 

"  Did  more  to  shiver  this  ancient  wall 
Than  earthquake,  war,  simoon,  or  all 
The  centuries  in  their  lapse  and  fall ! 


A   BIRD'S  MINISTRY.  61 

"  Then  I  knelt  by  the  riven  granite  there, 
And  my  soul  shook  off  its  weight  of  care, 
As  my  voice  rose  clear  on  the  tropic  air :  — 

"  '  The  living  seeds  I  have  dropped  remain 

In  the  cleft :  Lord,  quicken  with  dew  and  rain  ; 

Then  temple  and  mosque  shall  be  rent  in  twain !  '  " 


MYRRH-BEAKERS.1 

'"T^HREE  women  crept  at  break  of  day, 

-*■     A-grope  along  the  shadowy  way 
Where  Joseph's  tomb  and  garden  lay. 

With  deadly  woe  each  face  was  white, 
As  the  gray  Orient's  waxing  light 
Brought  back  upon  their  awe-struck  sight 

The  sixth-day  scene  of  anguish.  Fast 
The  starkly-standing  cross  they  passed, 
And  breathless  neared  the  gate  at  last. 

Each  on  her  sobbing  bosom  bore 
A  burden  of  such  fragrant  store 
As  never  there  had  lain  before : 

Spices  the  purest,  richest,  best, 
That  e'er  the  musky  East  possessed, 
From  Ind  to  Araby-the-Blest, 

1  In  ancient  Greek  Art,  The  Marys  were  called  Myrrhopheres, 
Myrrh-Bearers. 


MYRRH-BEARERS.  63 

Had  they,  with  sorrow-riven  hearts, 
Searched  all  Jerusalem's  costliest  marts 
In  quest  of ;  —  nards  whose  pungent  arts 

Should  the  dead  sepulchre  imbue 
With  vital  odors  through  and  through : 
'T  was  all  their  love  had  leave  to  do ! 

Christ  did  not  need  their  gifts  :   and  yet 
Did  either  Mary  e'er  regret 
Her  offering  ?     Did  Salome  fret 

Over  the  unused  aloes  ?      Nay  ! 

They  counted  not  as  waste,  that  day. 

"What  they  had  brought  their  Lord  :  the  way 

Home  seemed  the  path  to  heaven  !     They  bare, 
Thenceforth,  about  the  robes  they  ware, 
The  clinging  perfume  everywhere  ! 

Enough  to  know  the  deed  was  priced 
By  this  one  thought  that  all  sufficed  : 
Their  spices  had  been  bruised  for  Christ ! 


FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 


"\7"0U  have  read  of  the  Moslem  palace,  the  marvellous 

■*■       fane  that  stands 
On  the  banks  of  the  distant  Jumna,  the  wonder  of  all  the 
lands.1 


You  have  read  of  its  marble  splendors,  its  carvings  of  rare 
device, 

Its  domes  and  its  towers  that  glisten  like  visions  of  Para- 
dise. 

You  have  listened,  as  one  has  told  you  of  its  pinnacles 

snowy-fair, 
So  pure  that  they  seemed  suspended,  like  clouds,  in  the 

crystal  air ; 

0£  the  flow  of  its  fountains,  falling  as  softly  as  mourners' 

tears  ; 
Of  the  lily  and  rose  kept  blooming  for  over  two  hundred 

years ; 

1  The  Taj,  erected  at  the  city  of  Agra,  India,  in  1635,  by  the 
Shah  Jehan,  to  the  memory  of  his  best-beloved  wife,  Xourmahal. 


FOR   LOVE'S   SAKE.  65 

Of  the  friezes  of  frost-like  beauty,  the  jewels  that  crust 

the  wall, 
The  carvings  that  crown  the  archway,  the  innermost  shrine 

of  all,  — 

Where  lies   in  her  sculptured  coffin    (whose  chisellings 

mortal  man 
Hath  never  excelled)  the  dearest  of  the  loves  of  the  Shah 

Jehan. 

They  read  you  the  shining  legends,  whose  letters  are  set  in 

gems 
On  the  walls  of  the  sacred  chamber,  that  sparkle  like 

diadems. 

And  they  tell  you  these  letters,  gleaming  wherever  the 

eye  may  look, 
Are  words  of  the  Moslem  Prophet,  are  texts  from  his 

holy  book. 

And  still  as  you  heard,  you  questioned,  right  wonderingly, 

as  you  must, 
"  Why  rear  such  a  palace,  only  to  shelter  a  woman's 

dust  ?  " 

Why  rear  it  ?  —  The  Shah  had  promised  his  beautiful 

Noormahal 
To  do  it  because  he  loved  her,  —  he  loved  her,  and  that 

was  all ! 

5 


66  FOR   LOVE'S   SAKE. 

So   minaret,    wall    and    column,   and    tower,    and   dome 

above, 
All   tell  of   a  sacred  promise,   all   utter  one   accent,  — 

LOYE. 

II. 

You  know  of  another  temple,  a  grander  than  Hindoo 

shrine, 
The  splendor  of  whose  perfections  is  mystical,  strange, 

divine. 

You  have  read  of  its  deep  foundations,  which  neither  the 

frost  nor  flood, 
Nor  forces  of  earth  can  weaken,  cemented  in  tears  and 

blood. 

That,  chosen  with  skill  transcendent,  by  the  wisdom  that 

fills  the  Throne, 
Was   quarried,   and   hewn,   and  polished,   its    wonderful 

Corner-stone. 

So  vast  is  its  scale  proportioned,  so  lofty  its  turrets  rise, 
That  the  pile  in  its  finished  glory  will  reach  to  the  very 
skies. 

The  lapse  of  the  silent  Kedron,  the  roses  of  Sharon  fair, 
Gethsemane's    sacred    olives    and    cedars    are    round    it 
there. 


FOR   LOVE'S   SAKE.  C7 

And  graved  on  its  walls  and  pillars,  and  cut  in  its  crystal 

stone. 
Are  the  words  of  our  Prophet,  sweeter  than  Islam's  hath 

ever  known  :  — 

Texts  culled  from  the  Holy  Gospel,  that  comfort,  refresh, 

sustain, 
And  shine  with  a  rarer  lustre  than  the  gems  of  the  Hindoo 

fane. 

Oh,  not  to  the  dead  —  to  the  Living,  we  rear  on  the  earth 

He  trod, 
This  fane  to  His  lasting  glory  —  this  Church  to  the  Christ 

of  God ! 

u  Why  labor  and  strive  ?  "     TVe  have  promised  (and  dare 

we  the  vow  recall  ?) 
To  do   it  because  we  love    Him,  —  we   love  Him,  and 

that  is  all ! 

For  over  the  Church's  portal,  each  pillar  and  arch  above, 
Is  blazoned  the  royal  signet,  is  graven  the  watchword, — 
Love. 


BLEMISHED   OFFERING. 


"T   WOULD  my    gift    were    worthier!"    sighed    the 
J-  Greek, 

As  on  he  goaded  to  the  temple-door 

His  spotted  bullock.     "  Ever  of  our  store 

Doth  Zeus  require  the  best ;  and  fat  and  sleek 

The  ox  I  vowed  to  him  (no  brindled  streak, 

No  fleck  of  dun)  when  through  the  breakers'  roar 
He  bore  me  safe,  that  day,  to  Naxos'  shore  ; 

And  now,  my  gratitude,  how  seeming  weak ! 

"  But  here  be  chalk-pits.     What  if  I  should  white 

The  blotches,  hiding  all  unfitness  so  ? 

The  victim  in  the  people's  eyes  would  show 
Better  therefor ;  —  the  sacrificial  rite 
Be  quicklier  granted  at  thus  fair  a  sight, 

And  the  great  Zeus  himself  might  never  know." 

ii. 
We  have  a  God  who  knows.     And  yet  we  dare 
On  His  consuming  altar-coals  to  lay 
(Driven  by  the  prick  of  conscience  to  obey) 


BLEMISHED   OFFERING.  69 

The  whited  sacrifice,  the  hollow  prayer, 
In  place  of  what  we  vowed,  in  our  despair, 

Of  best  and  holiest ;  —  glad  no  mortal  may 
Pierce  through  the  cheat,  and  hoping  half  to  stay 
That  Eye  before  whose  search  all  souls  are  bare  ! 

Nay,  rather  ;  —  let  us  bring  the  victim-heart, 
Defiled,  unworthy,  blemished  though  it  be, 
And  fling  it  on  the  flame,  entreating,  —  "  See  — 
I  blush  to  know  how  vile  in  every  part 
Is  this  my  gift,  through  sin's  delusive  art, 

Yet  't  is  the  best  that  I  can  offer  Thee !  " 


A  YEAR   IN  HEAVEN. 


\     YEAR  un calendared  ;  —  for  what 
-*— *-     Hast  thou  to  do  with  mortal  time  ? 
Its  dole  of  moments  entereth  not 

That  circle,  infinite,  sublime, 
Whose  unreached  centre  is  the  throne 

Of  Him  before  whose  awful  brow 
Meeting  eternities  are  known 

As  but  an  everlasting  Now  ! 
The  thought  uplifts  thee  far  away,  — 

Too  far  beyond  my  love  and  tears ; 
Ah,  let  me  hold  thee  as  I  may, 

And  count  thy  time  by  earthly  years. 

ii. 

A  year  of  blessedness,  wherein 

No  faintest  cloud  hath  crossed  thy  soul ; 
No  throe  of  pain,  no  taint  of  sin, 

No  frail  mortality's  control : 


A    YEAR  IN  HEAVEN.  71 

Not  once  hath  disappointment  stung, 

Nor  care,  world-weary,  made  thee  pine  ; 
But  rapture  such  as  human  tongue 

Hath  found  no  language  for,  is  thine. 
Made  perfect  at  thy  passing,  who 

Dare  sum  thine  added  glory  now, 
As  onward,  upward,  pressing  through 

The  ranks  that  with  veiled  faces  bow, 
Ascending  still  from  height  to  height, 

Fearless  where,  hushed,  the  seraphs  trod, 
Unfaltering  midst  the  circles  bright, 

Thou  tendest  inward  unto  God  ? 


in. 

A  year  of  progress  in  the  lore 

That  is  not  learned  on  earth :  thy  mind, 
Unclogged  of  clay,  and  free  to  soar, 

Hath  left  the  realms  of  doubt  behind. 
And  mysteries  which  thy  finite  thought 

In  vain  essayed  to  solve,  appear 
To  thine  untasked  inquiries  fraught 

"With  explanations  strangely  clear. 
Thy  reason  owns  no  forced  control 

As  held  it  here  in  needful  thrall, 
God's  secrets  court  thy  questioning  soul, 

And  thou  mayst  search  and  know  them  all. 


72  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 


IV. 


A  year  of  love  ;  thy  yearning  heart 

Was  always  tender  even  to  tears, 
And  sympathy's  responsive  art 

Lent  its  warm  coloring  to  thy  years. 
But  love  whose  wordless  ecstasy 

Had  overborne  the  finite,  now 
Throbs  through  thy  saintly  purity, 

And  burns  upon  thy  dazzling  brow. 
For  thou  the  hands'  dear  clasp  hast  felt 

That  show  the  nail-prints  still  displayed, 
And  thou  before  the  face  hast  knelt 

That  wears  the  scars  the  thorns  have  made. 


A  year  without  thee :  —  I  had  thought 

My  orphaned  heart  would  break  and  die, 
Ere  time  had  meek  quiescence  wrought, 

Or  soothed  the  tears  it  could  not  dry. 
And  yet  I  live,  —  to  faint,  to  groan, 

To  stagger  with  the  woe  I  bear, 
To  miss  thee  so  !  —  to  moan  and  moan 

The  name  I  dare  not  breathe  in  prayer ! 
Thou  praising,  while  I  weakly  pine  ; 

Enraptured,  while  I  sorrow  sore,  — 


A    YEAR  IX  HEAVEN.  73 

And  thus  betwixt  thy  soul  and  mine 
The  distance  widening  evermore ! 

VI. 

A  year  of  tears  to  me  ;  to  thee 

The  end  of  thy  probation's  strife, 
The  archway  to  eternity, 

The  portal  of  thy  deathless  life  : 
To  me,  the  corse,  the  bier,  the  sod ; 

To  thee,  the  palm  of  victory  given  : 
Enough,  my  bruised  heart !     Thank  God 

That  thou  hast  been  a  year  in  heaven ! 


BROIDERY-WORK. 


T3  ENEATH  the  desert's  rim  went  down  the  sun, 
*—*     And  from  their  tent-doors,  all  their  service  done, 
Came  forth  the  Hebrew  women  one  by  one. 


For  Bezaleel,  the  master,  who  had  rare 
And  curious  skill,  and  gifts  beyond  compare, 
Greater  than  old  Mizraim's  greatest  ware, 

Had  bidden  that  they  approach  at  his  command, 

As  on  a  goat-skin  spread  upon  the  sand 

He  sat,  and  saw  them  grouped  on  every  hand. 

And  soon,  as  came  to  pass,  a  silence  fell ; 
He  spake  and  said  :  "  Daughters  of  Israel, 
I  bring  a  word  ;  I  pray  ye,  hearken  well. 

"  God's  Tabernacle,  by  His  pattern  made, 
Shall  fail  of  finish,  though  in  order  laid, 
Unless  ye  women  lift  your  hands  to  aid !  " 


BROIDERY-WORK. 

A  murmur  ran  the  crouched  assembly  through, 

As  each  her  veil  about  her  closer  drew  : 

*•  AVe  are  but  women!  —  what  can  women  do  ?  " 

And  Bezaleel  made  answer  :  "  Not  a  man 
Of  all  our  tribes,  from  Judah  unto  Dan, 
Can  do  the  thing  that  just  ye  women  can ! 

"  The  gold  and  broidered  work  about  the  hem 

Of  the  priests'  robes,  —  pomegranate,  knop  and  stem, 

Man's  clumsy  fingers  cannot  compass  them. 

M  The  sanctuary  curtains  that  must  wreathen  be 
And  bossed  with  cherubim  —  the  colors  three, 
Blue,  purple,  scarlet  —  who  can  twine  but  ye  ? 

"  Yours  is  the  very  skill  for  which  I  call  ; 

So  bring  your  cunning  needlework,  though  small 

Your  gifts  may  seem :  the  Lord  hath  need  of  all  !  " 


THE   BOY  OF  TARSUS. 

A   LEGEND    OF    SAINT   PAUL. 

'""r*HE  rabbi  stroked  his  beard  of  snow, 

-*-       And  reverently  began  to  roll, 
With  careful  foldings,  calm  and  slow, 
The  wrappings  round  the  sacred  scroll. 

The  solemn  ritual  had  been  read  ; 

And,  turning  with  an  aspect  meek, 
"  If  any  hath  a  word,"  he  said, 

"  Unto  the  people,  let  him  speak." 

Whereon  a  youth  with  eagle  eye, 
And  pallid  vehemence  of  face, 

Born  of  impatience  stern  and  high, 
Stepped  forward  for  a  little  space. 

With  nostrils  wide  dilated,  lips 
He  might  not  silence  if  he  would, 

Tense  to  his  very  finger-tips, 

Willi  fragile  form  erect  he  stood. 


THE  BOY  OF   TARSUS.  77 

The  people  turned  their  wondering  gaze 

Upon  him,  till  a  waiting  hush 
Gathered  on  every  upturned  face  ; 

They  saw  that  some  keen  passion's  rush 

Flooded  his  speech,  as  when  the  snows 

Of  his  own  Tarsus  plunge  amain 
Upon  the  Cydnus  as  it  flows 

Across  Cilicia's  stretch  of  plain.- 

"  Oh,  men  !  "  he  cried,  "  what  time  ye  learn 

Such  truths,  I  marvel  that  your  souls 
Should  not  be  fired,  until  they  burn 

With  the  white  heat  of  altar  coals ! 

"  Why  should  we  Hebrews  hide  our  faith, 

Trembling  before  the  lictors'  rods  ? 
No  God  but  one,  our  Scripture  saith  ; 

Yet  Tarsus  hath  its  thousand  gods. 

"  Behold  what  temples  crown  our  heights  ; 

What  heathen  shrines  infest  our  ways  ! 
See  yonder  sacrificial  rites  : 

Hark,  how  they  hymn  Apollo's  praise ! 

M  While  we  whose  hearts  therewith  grow  sad, 
Sit  with  dumb  lips  that  make  no  moan, 

Who  craves  the  courage  Moses  had 
Before  the  kingly  Pharaoh's  throne  ? 


FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 

"  Who  dares  to  show  a  David's  zeal 
Right  in  our  proud  Proconsul's  eyes  ? 

Who  hath  a  Daniel's  strength  to  kneel 
And  own  the  power  that  Rome  defies  ? 

"  Would  God  that  out  of  Shiloh  now 
The  Prophet  promised  long  might  come, 

To  smite  these  altars  till  they  bow ; 
To  strike  these  lying  wonders  dumb  ! 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  wrong  you,  though 
My  words  are  words  of  truth,  yet  wild ; 

For  ye  are  ancient  men  and  know 
Wisdom,  and  I  am  but  a  child." 

The  boy  sank  back.  The  people  gazed 
With  curious  eyes,  as  if  they  feared 

Fanatic  zeal  his  brain  had  crazed ; 
The  rabbi  stroked  his  snowy  beard, 

Saying  :  "  Take  heed :  our  faith  one  day 
May  feel  a  new  reformer's  rule. 

This  stripling  goes  next  moon,  they  say, 
To  study  in  Gamaliel's  school." 


WHATSOEVER. 

/^\XE  day  in  stress  of  need  I  prayed : 
^-^     "  Dear  Father,  Thou  hast  bid  me  briDg 
All  wants  to  Thee ;  so,  unafraid, 

I  ask  Thee  for  this  little  thing 

Round  which  my  hopes  so  keenly  cling ; 
And  yet  remembering  what  Thou  art  — 

So  dread,  so  wondrous,  so  divine  — 
I  marvel  that  I  have  the  heart 

To  tell  Thee  of  this  wish  of  mine  ! 

"  Thy  heavens  are  strewn  with  worlds  on  worlds, 

Thy  star-dust  powders  reachless  space  ; 
System  on  system  round  Thee  whirls 

Who  sittest  in  the  central  place 

Of  Being,  while  before  Thy  face 
The  universe  hangs  like  a  bead 

Of  dew,  upon  whose  arc  is  shown, 
With  but  reflected  flash,  indeed, 

Godhood's  magnificence  alone. 

"  And  when  I  think,  Our  world  is  one, 
But  one  amid  the  countless  band 


80  FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 

That  in  its  daily  course  doth  run 

Its  golden  circuit  through  Thy  hand, 
And  that  its  peopled  millions  stand 

Always  before  Thee,  even  as  I,  — 

Sad  suppliants  with  their  pleadings  dumb, 

Waiting  for  every  hour's  supply,  — 
I  wonder  that  I  dare  to  come ! 

"  The  thing  I  ask  Thee  for  —  how  small, 

How  trivial,  must  it  seem  to  Thee ! 
Yet,  Lord,  Thou  knowest,  who  knowest  all, 

It  is  no  little  thing  to  me, 

So  weak,  so  human  as  I  be ! 
Therefore  I  make  my  prayer  to-day, 

And  as  a  father  pitieth,  then, 
Grant  me  this  little  thing,  I  pray, 

Through  the  one  sacred  Name.     Amen  !  " 

I  had  my  wish.     The  little  thing 
So  needful  to  my  heart's  content 

Was  given  to  my  petitioning, 
And  comforted  I  onward  went 
With  tranquil  soul,  wherein  were  blent 

Trust  and  thanksgiving.     For  I  know 
Now,  as  I  had  not  known  before, 

The  whatsoever 's  meaning  ;  so, 
I  cavil  not  nor  question  more. 


IN  SIMON'S   HOUSE. 

"  \\  70E,  woe  is  me !  "  the  outcast  said, 

▼  V     And  drew  her  mantle  o'er  her  head, 
And  moaned,  "  Would  God  that  I  were  dead ! 

"  The  women  catch  their  robes  aside 
What  time  I  pass  ;  the  men  deride ; 
The  children  in  the  market  chide. 

"  And  dare  I,  then,  to  Him  draw  nigh, 
Who  lifted  up  His  voice  on  high 
With  such  a  sweet,  entreating  cry  ? 

"  *  Come  unto  Me,  ye  weary,'  so 
I  heard  Him  say,  as  crouching  low 
Amid  the  throng  I  hid  my  woe. 

"  And  when  He  spake  of  '  rest,'  my  breath 
Came  back,  as  from  the  jaws  of  death, 

0  blessed  Christ  of  Nazareth ! 

u  To-day  He  sups  with  Simon.     Dare 

1  loosen  all  my  lengths  of  hair. 

And,  thus  concealed,  adventure  there ; 
6 


82  FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 

"  And  see  Him  as  He  sits  at  meat, 
And,  creeping  close,  with  unguents  sweet 
Anoint  His  sandal-fretted  feet  ? 

"  '  Oh,  heavy-laden  !  *  If  He  be 
That  Christ  come  out  of  Galilee, 
He  meant  this  very  word  for  me!" 

So,  swathed  about,  that  none  might  say 
Who  walked  untended  forth  that  day, 
To  Simon's  house  she  took  her  way. 

Within  the  court  she  shrinking  pressed 
Among  the  menials,  fearful  lest 
She  should  not  find  the  Lord  a  guest. 

And  cowering  in  the  lowliest  place, 

She  drew  her  veil  a  hand-breadth's  space, 

And  lo  !  that  calm,  majestic  face ! 

She  stole  behind  His  cushioned  seat ; 
She  touched  with  touch  of  awe  His  feet ; 
She  kissed  them  with  her  kisses  sweet, 

And  o'er  them  poured  the  ointment  rare, 
And  wiped  them  with  her  trailing  hair, 
And  wept  with  wonder,  that  she  dare,  — 


IN  SIMON'S  HOUSE.  83 

She,  so  abashed,  despised,  undone, 
Whom  publicans  made  haste  to  shun,  — 
Unchided,  touch  the  Holy  One. 

"  Seest  Thou  this  woman  ?"  —  Wholly  stirred 
By  contrite  grief,  she  had  not  heard, 
Till  thus  He  spake,  a  single  word. 

O'erwhelmed,  she  snatched  her  hair  outspread, 
Wrapped  quick  her  veil  about  her  head, 
And  sank  as  one  astound  and  dead. 

He  too  would  spurn  her !     Knowing  all 
The  guilt  and  trespass  of  her  fall, 
For  her  He  had  not  meant  that  call. 

Thus  bowed,  self-loathing  in  her  fear, 
There  struck  across  her  muffled  ear 
A  sound  her  soul  rose  up  to  hear, 

As  on  her  head  she  felt  His  touch, 
"Her  sins  are  all  forgiven,  though  such 
Be  many,  — for  she  loved  much" 

The  angels  that  bent  down  to  see, 
Beheld  no  heart  from  burdens  free 
As  hers  that  night  in  Bethany. 


HER  PROMISE. 

T  TE  told  me  of  her  tender  grace, 
■*■  -*■      Her  softly  lifting  eye, 
The  timid  beauty  of  her  ways, 
So  shrinking  and  so  shy. 

And  then  her  inner  loveliness  — 
"'Twas  like  a  saint's,"  he  said; 

"  And  I  could  see  a  halo  press 
About  her  golden  head. 

"  And  yet  she  went  with  life  undrained, 

Her  morning  in  its  dew, 
Her  hope's  young  purpose  unattained, 

Her  joys  still  fresh  and  new. 

"  Her  nature  was  so  quick  to  stir 

At  every  sudden  breath  ; 
If  life  had  power  to  startle  her, 

What  would  it  be  with  death  ? 


HER  PROMISE.  85 

"  I  watched  with  sinkings  of  despair 

The  fading  of  her  bloom ; 
I  questioned  —  should  we  ever  dare 

To  warn  her  of  her  doom  ? 

"  I  wrung  my  lips  at  length  to  speak 

The  whispered  word  of  woe ; 
No  added  pallor  blanched  her  cheek, 

She  simply  said,  i  I  know.' 

"  Such  faith  had  proved  her  comforter, 

Such  cheer,  divine  to  see ; 
My  thought  was  how  to  solace  her, 

And  she  had  solaced  me. 

" '  Why,  father,  I  will  watch  and  wait, 

Till  you  the  entrance  win, 
The  first  glad  angel  at  the  gate 

To  bid  you  enter  in.' " 

—  Ah,  sweetest  promise  surely  kept ! 

For  who  may  dare  to  say 
She  did  not  meet  him  as  he  stepped 

Into  the  golden  day  ? 

It  helps  to  make  us  understand, 

It  quiets  down  the  moan, 
To  think  she  took  him  by  the  hand 

And  led  him  to  the  throne. 


WHEN   SAINT   CHRYSOSTOM   PRAYED. 

'**  I  ^  WAS  not  enough  to  kneel  in  prayer, 
■*■      And  pour  his  very  soul  away 
In  fervid  wrestlings,  night  and  day, 

For  those  who  owned  his  shepherd  care  ; 

But  faith  and  works  went  hand  in  hand, 
As  test  of  each  petition  made, 

And  saints  were  helped  throughout  the  land 
Wlien  Saint  Chrysostom  prayed. 

Within  the  closet  where  he  knelt, 
A  box  of  Bethlehem's  olive-wood  — 
"  For  Christ,"  engraved  upon  it  —  stood  ; 

And  ever  as  he  daily  felt 

The  pressure  of  the  Church's  need, 
Therein  the  daily  gift  was  laid ; 

For  word  had  instant  proof  of  deed 
When  Saint  Chrysostom  prayed. 

Beneath  his  folded  hands  he  placed 
Whatever  gold  was  his  ;  and  when 
He  travailed  for  the  souls  of  men, 

So  long  by  Pagan  rites  debased, 


WHEN  SAINT  CHRYSOSTOM  PRAYED.      87 

The  more  he  agonized,  the  more 

The  burden  of  his  spirit  weighed ; 
And  piece  by  piece  went  all  his  store, 

When  Saint  Chrysostoni  prayed. 

O  golden-mouthed,  let  this  thine  alms 

Rouse  us  to  shame,  who  daily  bow 

Within  our  secret  places  now, 
With  outstretched  yet  with  empty  palms ! 
We  supplicate  indeed  ;  but  has 

Our  faith  brought  answering  works  to  aid  ? 
Have  words  by  deeds  been  proven,  as 

When  Saint  Chrysostoni  prayed  ? 


THE   EVERLASTING  YEA. 

r  |  "HE  first  recorded  words  that  brake 

-*■       Across  the  silent  Eden  air  — 
The  first  that  lips  created  spake 

To  man,  the  sinless  dweller  there  — 

Were  words  of  covert  doubt  that  veiled 

Denial  in  their  cautious  breath 
Right  subtly,  or  they  else  had  failed 

To  lure  their  listener  on  to  death. 

"Yea,  hath  God  said?"     One  carping  thought 
Dropped  with  the  tempter's  sinuous  slur 

Into  the  startled  soul,  and  caught 

With  strange  assent,  had  power  to  stir 

Such  dread  negation,  that  its  force 
Was  strong  in  might  to  overthrow 

Faith  at  the  race's  fountain  source, 
And  whelm  a  sceptic  world  in  woe. 


THE  EVERLASTING   YEA.  89 

"  Yea,  hath  God  said?  "     The  primal  doubt, 
Wrought  through  the  earliest  sophist's  skill, 

Is  flung,  like  some  new  question,  out 
From  the  last  lip  that  cavils,  still. 

Its  echo  sinks  and  swells  along 

The  ages,  with  a  spell  accurst ; 
Now  arrogant,  defiant,  strong,  — 

Now  cunning,  crafty,  as  at  first. 

And  fast  and  far  the  lava  flood 

TTill  roll  its  ruin  deep  and  broad, 
Unstayed  by  even  atoning  blood, 

Till  the  millennium  of  God. 

Then  shall  the  unavailing  Nay 

Uttered  in  Eden  first,  become, 
Before  the  Everlasting  Yea 

Breathed  in  the  olive  garden,  dumb  ! 

For  God  hath  said,  and  He  will  show 
His  word  confirmed  all  worlds  before,  ■ 

Till  the  whole  universe  shall  know 
His  Yea  is  Tea,  forevermore  ! 


DOUBT. 

T  LIFT  weak  hands  in  lowliest  thankfulness, 
-*■     That,  as  a  little  stumbling  child  who  knows 

Nought  of  the  way  he  treads,  but  onward  goes, 
Happy,  secure,  unquestioning,  reasonless, 
Because  he  feels  his  father's  fingers  press 

His  own  in  steadfast  guidance  ;  doubts  impose 
No  cross-lights  to  confuse  me  or  distress. 
"Is  this  the  way  ?  "     If  Christ  but  answer,  "Yes," 
I  am  content.     I  would  not  have  the  trust 

Of  yearling  prattlers  shame  me,  while  I  stand 
Demanding  how  the  bridgeless  gulf  is  crossed, 
The  scaleless  mountain  levelled  with  the  dust, 
The  mist-swathe  rent  in  which  the  path  seems  lost ; 

What' need  to  ask?  —  My  Father  holds  my  hand. 


THE   WEDGE   OF   GOLD. 

A    LITTLE  wedge  of  gold,  O  Lord ! 
•*■  ■*•     Thou  wilt  not  miss  it  much 
Amid  Thy  vast  abundance  stored,  — 

Thou  hast  not  need  of  such  ; 
And  didst  Thou  speak  indeed  the  word 

Forbidding  me  to  touch  ? 

The  nature  Thou  hast  given  to  me 

Must  I  suppress  —  deny, 
And  school  its  loves  until  they  be 

Foregone  without  a  sigh, 
For  lack  of  just  such  ministry 

As  only  gold  can  buy  ? 

This  costly  garment  —  Lord,  forgive, 

Beseech  Thee,  if  I  urge 
That  I  can  honor  Thee  and  strive 

My  will  in  Thine  to  merge, 
And  truly  for  Thy  service  live, 

In  cloth-of-gold,  as  serge ! 


92  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

The  goodly  colors  thou  hast  wrought, 

The  lovely  fashioning, 
Which  Thou  some  deftest  hand  hast  taught 

Across  its  web  to  fling,  — 
Can  I  persuade  myself  I  ought 

To  count  a  "  cursed  thing  "  ? 

I  cannot  comprehend  it  so, 
How  gain  to  Thee  should  fall, 

Whether  I  keep  the  robe  or  no,  — 
To  Thee  who  ownest  all ; 

Thou  dost  not  take  account,  I  trow, 
Of  anything  so  small. 

Have  I  not  marched  with  even  tread, 
And  kept  the  cloud  in  view  ? 

Have  I  not  on  the  manna  fed, 
Nor  moaned,  as  others  do, 

Because  they  had  but  pilgrims'  bread 
The  pilgrim  journey  through  ? 

Since  I  am  on  thy  Church's  side, 

Her  banners  to  uphold, 
Since  'mid  her  ranks  I  would  abide, 

In  promised  conquest  bold  — 
Lord,  be  not  wroth,  though  I  should  hide 

This  little  wedge  of  gold  ! 


UNTIL  THE   DAY  BREAK. 

i. 

|"  OFTEN  wondered,  when  at  night 
•*•     The  curtained  lids  had  shut  from  sight 
Those  eyes  so  over-brimmed  with  light,  — 

How  I  could  sleep  the  long  hours  through, 
As  even  the  watchful-hearted  do, 
Nor  have  their  violet  once  in  view. 

Sometimes,  as  love  late  vigil  kept, 
Hearing  him  stir,  I  've  closer  stepped, 
Half-minded,  if  he  lightly  slept, 

To  test  him  with  a  whispered  wile, 
(Meant  my  own  reason  to  beguile,) 
To  see  if  he  would  turn  and  smile. 

Then  I  would  hush  my  heart,  and  make 
Myself  ashamed,  that  I  should  break 
Such  sleep  for  love's  own  selfish  sake. 


94  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

"  Wait  till  the  morning,"  I  would  say,  — 
"  Wait  till  the  slumber  drifts  away,  — 
Then,  where  are  eyes  so  bright  as  they  ?  " 

ii. 

But  now  —  how  can  I  meet  the  sum 
Of  years  that  stretch,  a  martyrdom 
Of  yearning,  till  the  dawn  shall  come  ? 

Yet  in  this  midnight  of  my  woe 

Starts  forth  the  thought  that  shamed  me  so, 

Beside  his  cradle,  long  ago. 

"  Oh,  aching,  anguished  heart !  "  I  say, 
"  '  Until  the  day  break,'  watching  stay, 
'  Until  the  shadows  flee  away,'  — 

"  And  thou  shalt  find  that  God  has  kept 
The  eyes  whose  closing  thou  hast  wept, 
All  heaven  the  happier  that  they  slept !  " 


THE   DAILY   DRILL. 

/^VH,  this  battlefield  vast  of  the  world ! 
^^     This  trample  and  rush  of  the  foe, 
This  gage  that  forever  is  hurled, 
This  ceaseless  recoil  of  the  blow ! 


This  stringent  command  of  the  King, 

Proclaimed  through  His  armaments  wide, 

That  none  of  His  soldiers  shall  fling 
Their  armor,  one  moment,  aside  ! 


For  those  who  are  summoned  to  stand 
In  breaches  that  quicken  the  breath, 

How  can  they,  with  weapons  in  hand, 
Do  other  than  dare  to  the  death  ? 

But  we  who  lie  camping  beyond, 
A-halt  from  the  shock  of  the  fray, 

Held  close  by  that  absolute  bond, 
The  wearisome  drill  of  the  dav,  — 


96  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

What  need  that  we  brace  for  the  fight  ? 

What  call  that  our  courage  be  steeled  ? 
No  leader  would  urge,  if  he  might, 

Reserves  so  untried  to  the  field. 

—  Some  morn,  while  we  slumber  at  ease, 
Too  careless  for  question  or  glance, 

A  herald  may  startle  the  breeze 

With  the  heart-stirring  order,  —  "  Advance  I  " 

Then,  what  if  our  banners  be  tossed 
Aside  where  the  rubbish  is  thrust  ? 

And  what  if  equipments  be  lost, 
And  lances  be  blunted  with  rust  ? 

Nay,  better  to  practise  complete 

Our  duty,  with  soldierly  skill, 
Though  it  only  may  fit  us  to  meet 

The  daily  demand  of  the  drill. 


FOR   THE   LOVE   OF   GOD." 


T3  E  ADING  a  tiine-staiued  volume,  ancient  and  vellum- 

-*-^-         bound, 

Hid  in  the  quaint  black-letter,  here  is  the  tale  I  found : 


Only  a  childish  legend,  you  in  your  wisdom  preach  : 
But  is  there  never  a  lesson  even  a  child  may  teach  ? 


Once,  as  a  traveller  journeyed  over  the  Apennines, 
Children  and  wife  together,  toiling  beneath  the  pines  ; 

Hungry  and  hot  with  climbing,  deep  in  a  shady  pass, 
Pausing,  they  spread  their  noontide  meal  on  the  mossy 
grass. 

Just  as  the  bread  was  broken,  just  as  the  wine  was  broached. 
Slowly  a  band  of  pilgrims,  weary  and  gaunt,  approached. 

Stretching  their  hands,  they  pleaded,  "  For  the  love  of 

God,  we  pray, 
Give  us  to  eat,  for  nothing  has  moistened  our  lips  to-day  !  " 

7 


98  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

"  Children  and  wife,  ye  hear  them !  —  Giving  God's  poor 

our  bread, 
Say  —  shall    we   trust  His    bounty,  travelling   our   way 

unfed?" 

Up  from  the  grass  the  children  sprang  with  the  barley-cake  ; 
"  Here  is   the  flask,  untasted,"  the  wife  said ;    "  freely 
take ! " 

Sated,  the  pilgrims  blessed  them,  leaving  them  prayers  for 

gold  — 
"He  for  whose  sake  ye  did  it,  pay  you  a  hundred-fold!  " 

Ready  to  journey  onward,  gathering  the  wallet  up, 
One  of  the  unfed  children,  dropping  therein  the  cup, 

Cried,  with  a  look  bewildered,  "  Father,  I  thought  you 

said 
Nothing  was  left :  why,  only  look  at  these  loaves  of  bread  !  " 

Stooping  beside  the  fountain,  dipping  the  empty  flask, 
The  father  o'erheard  quick  voices,  eager  with   wonder, 
ask  — 

"  What  has  so  reddened  the  water  ?    Its  drops  like  grape- 
juice  shine !  " 
He  lifted  the  brimming  bottle  —  lo !  it  was  filled  with  wine  ! 


THIRTY-FOLD. 

"  QOME  sixty,  —  some  an  hundred." — "Why 
Vw*     Should  not  such  reckoning  have  been  mine  ? 
The  seed  itself  was  as  divine, 

The  quickening  power  as  strong  :  yet  I 

Bear  witness  to  the  increase  told,  — 
"  Some,  thirty-fold." 

And  was  the  fallow-ground  prepared 
By  patient  mellowing  of  the  clod, 
And  were  the  precious  rains  of  God, 

So  often  by  the  furrow  shared, 

To  yield,  with  sunshine's  added  gold, 
But  thirty-fold  ? 

And  yet  the  tiller  watched  the  growth, 
And  lopped  with  constant  care  away 
The  noxious  tares  that,  day  by  day, 

Bfy  heart-soil  nurtured,  nothing  loath 

Thereby  the  stinted  gain  to  hold 
To  thirty-fold. 


100  FOR   LOVE'S  SAKE. 

The  strengthening  of  the  winter  frost 
Was  not  denied,  through  which  the  root 
Might  strike  with  deeper,  downward  shoot, 

And  back  and  forth  the  blade  was  tossed ; 

Yet  what  the  count  when  all  is  told  ? 
Just  thirty-fold ! 

O  Sower  of  the  seed  divine, 

Make  it  "  an  hundred  !  "  —  Nevermore 
May  I  be  shamed  in  counting  o'er, 

Amid  the  swath,  these  grains  of  mine, 

To  see  the  harvest  handsel  hold 
But  thirty-fold ! 


WILLING. 

A  KING  whose  state  was  marvellous  for  splendor, 
Whose  royal  city  shone 
Gorgeous  with  every  grandeur  that  could  render 
Due  honor  to  his  throne, 

Had  kept  his  son  from  court  for  sterner  training, 

Through  disciplines  profound  ; 
The  better  so  to  perfect  him  for  reigning, 

What  time  he  should  be  crowned. 

And  now  the  day  was  set  for  his  returning 

From  that  far  province  where 
Had  passed  his  nonage  ;  and  the  king  was  yearning 

To  hail  the  expectant  heir. 

So  a  proud  embassage  was  missioned,  bearing 

Word  that,  probation  done, 
The  monarch,  who  for  years  had  been  preparing 

Fit  empire  for  his  son, 


102  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

At  length  desired  that  he  should  take  possession 
Of  his  full  birthright  dower,  — 

The  honor,  glory,  good  beyond  expression, 
Withheld  until  that  hour. 

What  said  the  banished  ?  —  Did  ecstatic  pleasure 

Give  to  his  spirit  wings, 
Whose  eagerness,  in  overmastering  measure, 

Outsoared  the  waiting  king's  ? 

Nay ;  when  they  told  the  message  of  the  father, 

There  was  a  startled  pause, 
A  strange,  reluctant  look,  as  though  he  rather 

Would  linger  where  he  was. 

Yet,  since  the  embassage  was  urgent,  stilling 

Whatever  secret  throe 
It  cost  to  leave  his  exile,  he  was  "  willing," 

Half-sad,  he  said,  "  to  go." 

Ungracious  heart !  —  to  wound  with  hesitation 
Such  love !  —  to  hear  the  call 

Homeward  without  one  rapturous  exultation  — 
"  Willing  "  —  and  that  was  all ! 


A1 


NOMINE   DOMINI. 

LL  the  day  upon  the  mountain, 
From  the  earliest  flush  of  dawn, 
Till  the  stars  in  sudden  splendor 
Sank  behind  the  Wetterhorn, 
Had  the  herd-boy  watched  the  pastures,  till  the  silence 
grew  forlorn. 

Awful  seemed  the  sky  above  him, 

With  its  blue  so  strangely  deep  ; 
Far  — how  far !  — his  master's  chalet 
Specked  upon  the  distant  steep ; 
Not  a  sound  to  jar  the  stillness  save  the  bleating  of  the 
sheep. 

In  his  loneliness,  for  solace, 

He  had  counselled  with  the  flowers : 
He  had  welcomed,  for  their  patter, 
Even  the  passing  thunder-showers; 
And  had  called  the  lambs  to  help  him  chase  along  the 
loitering  hours. 


104  FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 

Now  the  dark  was  closing  round  him, 

He  must  keep  his  flocks  in  sight, 
Shepherding  their  foldless  slumber, 
All  along  upon  the  height : 
And  he  felt  his  child-heart    flutter    as  he  watched    the 
waning  light. 

Aimlessly  his  fingers  wandered, 

Toying  with  the  braid  of  hair 
Which  his  mother  hung  in  dying 

Round  his  neck,  and  bade  him  wear, 
For  the  legend's  sake  engraven  on  the  coin  suspended  there. 

And  her  words  came  back  like  echoes  :  — 

"  Eric,  hold  thee  to  thy  trust : 
In  the  Lord's  Name  do  thy  doing  ; 
Then  —  for  He  is  good  and  just — 
He  will  keep  thee  safe  from  danger,  when  thy  mother's 
heart  is  dust." 

Nomine  —  he  spelt  the  letters, 

As  he  pressed  his  touch  thereon  ; 
Domini  —  the  Alpine  darkness 
Seemed  to  catch  a  streak  of  dawn  ; 
And  the  boy  lay  down  to  quiet  slumber,  for  his  fear  was 
gone. 


TALITHA   CUMI.1 

WAS  it  a  marvel  the  maiden  dead 
Straightway  should  open  her  wondering  eyes, 
Soon  as  she  heard  what  Jesus  said,  — 
"  Darling,  I  say  unto  thee,  arise  "  ? 

Something  like  this  the  tender  tone 

Hid  in  the  Hebrew's  ancient  guise, 
As  in  His  hand  He  took  her  own  — 

"  Darling,  I  say  unto  thee,  arise !  " 

Can  she  obey  or  understand, 

Wrapped  in  her  grave-clothes,  as  she  lies  ? 
Has  she  the  strength  to  lift  a  hand  ? 

"  Darling,  I  say  unto  thee,  arise !  " 

Calls  she  upon  her  dearest  first, 

Father  and  mother,  from  whose  eyes, 
Tears,  as  they  heard,  in  gladness  burst  ? 

"  Darling,  I  say  unto  thee,  arise !  " 

1  These  words  in  the  original  embody  a  term  of  endearment. 


106  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

"  Nay,  I  am  weak  —  I  cannot  "  —  was 
That  what  she  said  in  humble  wise, 

After  the  words  of  Christ  had  pause  ? 
"  Darling,  I  say  unto  thee,  arise !  " 

Read  what  the  Gospel  saith :  "  Straightway  ;  " 
Never  a  word  of  vague  surmise 

Never  a  moment  of  delay  — 

"  Darling,  I  say  unto  thee,  arise  !  " 

If,  as  He  touched,  she  had  not  stirred, 
Nor,  as  He  spake,  unclosed  her  eyes, 

Think  you  the  maiden  had  ever  heard  — 
"  Darling,  I  say  unto  thee,  arise  "  ? 


READ  TO   SLEEP. 

T"?OR  threescore  years  and  ten, 
-*■        Burdened  with  care  and  woe, 
She  had  travelled  the  weary  ways  of  men  ; 
She  is  tired,  and  wants  to  go. 

It  has  been  so  hard  to  live ! 

And  even  her  stinted  store 
It  seemed  as  if  fate  had  grudged  to  give, 

And  she  wishes  her  need  was  o'er. 

So  musing,  one  afternoon, 

With  her  knitting  upon  her  lap, 

She  hears  at  her  door  a  drift  of  tune, 
And  a  quick,  familiar  tap. 

In  flashes  a  child's  fresh  face, 

And  her  birdlike  voice  sounds  gay," 

As  she  asks  in  a  tone  of  tender  grace, 
"  Shall  I  read  you  a  Psalm  to-day  ?  " 


108  FOR   LOVE'S   SAKE. 

"  Ay,  read  me  a  Psalm,  — '  The  Lord 
Is  my  shepherd,'  soft,  not  fast ; 

Then  turn  the  leaves  of  the  Holy  Word 
Till  you  come  to  the  very  last,  — 

"  Where  it  tells  of  the  wondrous  walls 
Of  jacinth  and  sapphire  stone, 

And  the  shine  of  the  crystal  light  that  falls 
In  rainbows  about  the  throne ;  — 

"  Where  there  never  are  any  tears,  — 
You  see  how  the  verse  so  saith,  — 

Nor  pain  nor  crying  through  all  God's  years, 
Nor  hunger,  nor  cold,  nor  death ;  — 

"  Yes,  read  of  it  all ;  —  it  lifts 

My  soul  up  into  the  light, 
And  I  look  straight  through  the  leaden  rifts, 

To  the  land  where  there  's  no  more  night." 

So  the  little  reader  read, 

Till  the  slow-going  needles  stopped, 
And  then  as  she  saw  that  the  weary  head 

On  the  wearier  breast  had  dropped  — 

Rising,  she  nearer  stepped  ;  — 

How  easy  it  all  had  been ! 
The  gates  had  unclosed  as  the  sleeper  slept, 

And  an  angel  had  drawn  her  in  ! 


THAT   DAY. 

They  abode  with  Him  that  day.  —  Saint  John. 

r  I  ^HE  young  disciples  stood  and  heard 

■*■      The  wondrous  prophet's  wondrous  word, 
And  strangely  were  their  spirits  stirred. 

With  outstretched  finger  raised  to  guide 
Where  He  of  Nazareth  walked  aside, 
"  Behold  the  Lamb  of  God !  "  he  cried. 

And  John  made  answer  :  "  Can  it  be 
That  Christ  shall  come  from  Galilee  ? 
Nay,  Andrew,  let  us  go  and  see." 

And  soon  abreast,  with  eager  mien, 

And  salutations  shy  yet  keen, 

They  walked  ;  and  Jesus  walked  between. 

Their  rapid  questions  forth  they  pour  ; 
But  they  have  other  —  more  and  more  — 
To  ask  Him  ere  they  reach  the  door 


110  FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 

Of  His  abode  :  He  craves  their  stay, 
With  words  so  full  of  grace,  that  they 
Enter,  and  there  abide  that  day. 

Within  the  courtyard  cool  and  dim, 
Beside  a  fountain's  mossy  rim, 
Withdrawn,  they  sit  and  talk  with  Him. 

"  Rabbi,  the  Baptist  voucheth  so, 
Till  all  our  souls  within  us  glow  ; 
But  say  —  art  Thou  the  Christ  or  no  ? 

"  We  count  the  years'  prophetic  sum, 
We  kneel  before  our  altars,  dumb, 
We  watch  until  the  Shiloh  come !  " 

Then  Jesus  answers  low  and  calm, 
In  words  that  drop  like  Gilead's  balm, 
And  holier  than  the  holiest  psalm. 

He  lifts  aloft  their  faith  so  weak  ; 

He  solves  the  doubts  they  dare  not  speak ; 

He  grants  the  quest  they  come  to  seek. 

The  twilight  falls  :  the  fountain's  shine 
Grows  dull  beneath  the  day's  decline  ; 
They  only  hear  that  voice  divine. 


THAT  DAY.         ~  Hi 

O'erawed,  at  length  they  rise  and  go, 

Each  to  the  other  whispering  low, 

"  T  is  He  !  "     "  Himself  hath  proved  it  so  !  " 

That  day  with  Christ !     In  after  years 
Did  not  its  memory  stanch  the  tears 
Of  Andrew  'mid  his  martyr  fears  ? 

When  John  in  Patmos  exile  lay, 
And  wore  the  grinding  hours  away, 
Waiting,  did  he  forget  That  Day  ? 


AGED   ELEVEN. 


u 


i. 

P  in  heaven, 
When  the  angels  led  my  own, 
Inward  to  the  central  throne, 

Past  the  seven 
Golden  candlesticks  that  stand 
Radiantly  on  either  hand, 
Did  the  saints  who  saw  the  shy 
Rapture  of  her  wondering  eye, 
And  the  new  ecstatic  shine, 
Making  all  her  face  divine, 
Lean  together,  whispering, 
"  Surely,  't  was  a  joyous  thing 
For  that  mother,  down  below, 
From  her  bosom  to  let  go 
Yonder  child  before  the  blur 
Of  that  marred  earth  blighted  her  "  ? 
Yet,  I  pore  with  shuddering  grief 
O'er  the  words,  cut  sharp  and  brief, 

"  Aged  Eleven  !  " 


AGED  ELEVEN.  113 

II. 

Up  in  heaven, 
Does  the  heart  that  'mid  the  throes 
Of  its  crucifixion  woes, 

WruDg  and  riven, 
Paused  one  awful  moment  there, 
To  uplift  from  stark  despair 
Her  who  bare  Him,  throb  for  me 
With  such  solace  ?     "  Mother,  see 
Now  thy  child !     Could  any  bliss 
Earth  might  in  reversion  hold, 
Multiplied  ten  thousand  fold, 
Reach  the  outmost  bound  of  this  ?  " 
Yea,  I  feel  the  throb  ;  and  bless, 
With  a  strange  soul-quietness, 
Christ's  sweet  grace ;  and  through  soft  tears, 
Calling  up  her  few,  bright  years, 
I  can  read,  nor  yet  repine, 
Though  the  mist  will  blur  the  line,  — 

"  Aged  Eleven  !  " 

To  M.  V.  T. 


SAINT   ANSELM'S   ANSWER. 

O  AINT  ANSELM,  of  the  ancient  day, 
v-'  "With  fasts  and  vigils  worn  away, 
Upon  his  couch  of  hemlock  lay. 

And  thus  the  stars  had  seen  him  lie, 
With  nothing,  as  the  years  went  by, 
Betwixt  his  forehead  and  the  sky. 

And  as  the  seasons  came  and  went, 
He  toiled  on  Christly  errands  bent, 
Not  thinking,  in  his  grand  content, 

Of  selfish  ease,  if  only  so 

He  might,  in  passing  to  and  fro, 

Lessen  the  weight  of  human  woe. 

This  night  (it  may  be  that  he  dreamed), 
As  on  the  ground  he  lay,  there  gleamed 
Such  radiance  round  him  that  he  deemed 


SAINT  ANSELM'S  ANSWER.  115 

(How  glad  the  thought !  )  it  might  be  some 
Celestial  spirit  who  had  come 
To  call  him  from  his  exile,  home. 

He  saw  no  form,  but  as  his  ear 

He  bent  in  reverent  awe  to  hear, 

He  caught  these  accents,  low  and  clear,  — 

"  Have  pity  on  thyself !     Instead 
Of  aching  on  this  cheerless  bed, 
Rear  thou  a  roof  to  shield  thy  head." 

The  saint  made  answer,  —  "  It  were  well 
I  knew  what  space  I  have  to  dwell 
Yet  in  the  flesh,  —  if  thou  canst  tell." 

"  Seven  toiling  years."  .  .  .  The  tender  wile 

Anselm  rebuked  with  patient  smile,  — 

"  Seven  only  ?     'T  is  not  worth  the  while  !  " 


SANCTUM   SANCTORUM. 

A   LL  days  are  great  Atonement  days  ; 
•*■  ^     All  men  who  come  and  humbly  bring, 

As  incense  with  their  offering 
Of  broken  hearts,  true  prayer  and  praise, 
Are  priests  on  God's  Atonement  days. 

Their  souls  are  sanctuaries  where, 

Close  curtained  from  the  world  of  sin, 
The  covering  cherubs  brood  within, 

Making,  amid  earth's  deserts  bare, 

Holiest-of-holies  everywhere. 

The  Spirit-lighted  mercy-seat 
To  every  alien's  foot  is  free, 
Whate'er  his  Gentile  life  may  be, 

If  he  but  bring  oblations  meet 

To  lay  before  that  mercy-seat. 

He  does  not  need  the  priestly  dress, 

The  breastplate  wrought  of  precious  stone, 
Urim  or  Thummim  ;  —  Christ  alone, 
In  His  supreme,  white  righteousness, 
Robes  him  as  with  the  high-priest's  dress. 


SANCTUM  SANCTORUM.  117 

He  does  not  need  to  bear  at  all 
The  mystic  blood  of  sacrifice 
Within  his  hand  as  proffered  price, 

Before  the  absolving  peace  shall  fall ; 

One  Lamb's  was  sprinkled  once  for  all ! 

Each  day  may  be  a  sacred  day, 
And  every  spot  a  holiest  place, 
Where  Christ  doth  manifest  His  grace ; 

Each  day  wherein  men  trust,  obey, 

And  love,  is  an  Atonement  day  ! 


THE  FIG-MEKCHANT. 

"  TN  the  name  of  the  Prophet,  figs  !  " 

Through  the  drowse  of  the  noon  afar 
Came  droning  the  Arab  vender's  cry, 

As  he  threaded  the  thronged  bazaar. 
With  the  courage  that  comes  of  faith, 

He  neither  had  thought  nor  care, 
Though  the  lip  of  the  scornful  Greek  might  curl, 

Or  the  insolent  Frank  might  stare. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Prophet,  figs  !  " 

A  traveller,  loitering  near, 
Half  screened  in  a  niche's  deep  recess, 

Turned  languidly  round  to  hear. 
But  scarce  had  the  Arab  passed, 

Ere  a  ripple,  that  seemed  a  sigh, 
Blurred  faintly  the  calm  of  his  lip,  and  broke 

In  a  haze  on  his  dreaming  eye. 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Prophet,  figs  !  " 

He  listened  with  downcast  face. 
"  This  Moslem,"  he  said,  "  is  brave  to  own 

His  creed  in  the  market-place ; 


THE  FIG-MERCHANT.  119 

While  I,  with  supremest  trust, 

And  a  hope  that  can  know  no  shame, 

Not  once  in  the  midst  of  this  multitude 
Have  thought  of  my  Prophet's  name. 

"  '  In  the  name  of  the  Prophet,  fgs  I ' 

No  vagueness  about  the  way 
He  honors  the  slow  muezzin  call, 

When  his  hour  has  come  to  pray. 
It  matters  not  where  he  be, 

His  worship  his  faith  reveals ; 
Would  I  have  the  manhood,  amid  these  crowds, 

To  kneel  as  the  Arab  kneels  ? 

"  '  In  the  name  of  the  Prophet,  Jigs  !  ' 

It  sinks  to  an  echo  sweet, 
Yet  floats  to  me  back  with  a  pungent  sting 

Of  reproach  in  this  foreign  street. 
It  bids  that,  with  faith  as  bold 

As  the  Moslem's,  I  bravely  do 
All  things  whatever,  or  great  or  small, 

In  the  name  of  my  Prophet  too !  " 


WORLD-SICKNESS. 

A  SONNET. 

/^\F  all  the  maladies  that  fret  men's  hearts 
^-^     And  paralyze  men's  souls,  can  any  show 

Such  crowds  of  victims  rushing  to  and  fro 
For  help,  as  this  dire  ailment  ?  All  the  arts 
That  wisest  skill  of  pharmacy  imparts, 

Have  failed  of  cure :  the  vaunted  healing  flow 
Of  Nature's  springs  —  alas,  how  well  we  know 
They  cannot  anodyne  these  inward  smarts ! 

And  yet,  0  fevered  and  world-jaded  soul, 
Consumed  with  deadly  thirst  thou  canst  not  quell, 
There  is  a  living  draught  can  make  thee  whole : 
Take  from  the  hand  of  Christ  the  crystal  cup 
Of  His  pure  grace,  —  that  Holy  Grail  filled  up 
With  sacramental  wine,  —  drink,  and  be  well ! 


HERE,   OR  THERE. 


OOMETIMES  when  faith  is  stilling 

w-'     All  doubt,  we  then  are  willing 
To  trust  our  Father's  guidance,  without  a  wish  or  care ; 

Content  to  bide  through  sorrow, 

Content  to  die  to-morrow, 
Nor  question  which  is  better,  to  serve  Him  here,  or  there. 


When,  missing  life's  best  guerdons, 

We  chafe  beneath  its  burdens, 
And  wonder  why  our  shoulder  should  have  such  weight 
to  bear ; 

Even  then,  if  choice  were  given,  — 

"  Earth,  —  if  ye  will,  or  Heaven/'  — 
Would  we  not  often  waver  betwixt  the  here  and  there  ? 

in. 
All  one  the  service,  whether 
We  link  our  hands  together, 
And  help  to  hearten  struggle,  or  seek  to  soften  care ; 


122  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

Or  front,  ourselves,  the  trial, 
The  failure,  loss,  denial,  — 
All  one,  to  do  or  suffer,  —  all  one,  the  here,  or  there. 

IV. 

What  spirit,  bending  lowly 

Before  the  High  and  Holy, 
Charged  with  the  humblest  errand  that  soul  to  soul  could 
bear, 

E'er  yearned  for  something  higher 

To  fill  his  large  desire  ? 
Nay,  to  obey  is  worship  supremest,  here,  or  there. 

v. 

At  best,  our  least  endeavor 

Must  faint  and  fail  forever, 
Without  God's  guiding  finger  to  point  the  how  or  where  ; 

Then  let  us  choose  His  choosing, 

All  selfish  choice  refusing, 
Nor  question  which  is  better,  to  serve  Him  here,  or  there. 


KEEPING  HIS  WORD. 

(Told to  a  child.) 

I. 

"  /^\XLY  a  penny  a  box,"  —  he  said : 

^-^    But  the  gentleman  turned  away  his  head, 
As  if  he  shrank  from  the  squalid  sight 
Of  the  boy  who  stood  in  the  failing  light. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  he  stammered,  "  you  cannot  know," 
(And  he  brushed  from  his  matches  the  flakes  of  snow, 
That  the  sudden  tear  might  have  chance  to  fall,) 
"Or,  I  think  —  I  think  you  would  take  them  all. 

"  Hungry  and  cold,  at  our  garret  pane, 
Ruby  will  watch  till  I  come  again, 
Bringing  the  loaf.     The  sun  has  set, 
And  he  has  n't  a  crumb  of  breakfast  yet. 

"  One  penny,  and  then  I  can  buy  the  bread." 
The  gentleman  stopped.     "  And  you  ?  "  he  said. 
"  / —  I  can  put  up  with  hunger  and  cold, 
But  Ruby  is  only  six  years  old. 


124  FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 

"  I  promised  our  mother  before  she  went,  — 
She  knew  I  would  do  it,  and  died  content,  —    . 
I  promised  her,  sir,  through  best,  through  worst, 
I  always  would  think  of  Ruby  first." 

The  gentleman  paused  at  the  open  door ; 
Such  tales  he  had  often  heard  before ; 
But  he  fumbled  his  purse  in  the  twilight  drear  — 
"  I  have  nothing  less  than  a  shilling  here." 

"  Oh,  sir,  if  you  only  will  take  the  pack, 
I  '11  bring  you  the  change  in  a  moment  back  ; 
Indeed  you  may  trust  me  !  " —  "  Trust  you  ?  —  no  ; 
But  stop,  —  I  '11  give  you  the  shilling ;  go  !  " 

ii. 

The  gentleman  lolled  in  his  easy-chair, 
And  watched  his  cigar-wreath  melt  in  air, 
And  smiled  on  his  children,  and  rose  to  see 
The  baby  asleep  on  its  mother's  knee. 

Just  then  came  a  message,  —  "  Outside  the  door  "  — 
But  ere  it  was  uttered,  across  the  floor, 
Half  breathless,  a  child  rushed,  ragged,  strange : 
"  I  am  Ruby, —  Mike's  brother, — I  hare   brought   the 
change. 


KEEPING   HIS    WORD.  125 

"  Mike  's  hurt,  sir.     The  snow,  it  made  him  blind ; 
He  did  n't  take  notice  the  train  behind 
Was  near,  till  he  slipped  on  the  track,  as  by 
It  whizzed ;  I  'm  afraid  —  I  'm  afraid  he  '11  die. 

"  Yet  nothing  would  do,  sir,  —  nothing  would  do, 
But  out  I  must  hurry  and  hunt  for  you. 
He  is  sure  of  his  hurt  you  won't  have  heard, 
And  he  wished  you  to  know  he  had  kept  his  word." 

—  When  the  garret  they  reached,  with  pain  they  saw 
Two  arms  stretched,  crushed,  on  the  heap  of  straw : 
"  You  did  it  f  —  dear  Ruby  —  God  bless  you  I  "  said 
The  brave  boy,  smiling,  and  sank  back  —  dead. 


THE   OTHER  MAN. 


'  I  ^HE  storm  had  spent  its  rage ;  the  sea 

■*■       Still  moaned  with  sullen  roar, 
And  flung  its  surges  wrathfully 

Against  the  shelving  shore ; 
And  wide  and  far  with  plank  and  spar 

The  beach  was  splintered  o'er. 


A  league  from  land  a  wreck  was  seen, 
Above  whose  wave-washed  hull, 

Fast-wedged  the  jutting  rocks  between, 
Circled  a  snow-white  gull, 

Whose  shrieking  cry  rose  clear  and  high 
Above  the  tempest's  lull. 

"  Hoy  •  —  To  the  rescue !  —  Launch  the  boat ! 

I  see  a  drifting  speck ; 
Some  struggler  may  be  still  afloat,  — 

Some  sailor  on  the  deck : 
Quick !  ply  the  oar,  —  put  from  the  shore, 

And  board  the  foundered  wreck !  " 


THE   OTHER  MAN.  127 

Bight  through  the  churning  plunge  of  spray, 

Whirled  like  an  ocean  shell, 
The  hardy  life-boat  warped  its  way, 

As  billows  rose  and  fell, 
And  boldly  cast  its  grapnel  fast 

Above  the  reefy  swell. 

Around  the  bows  the  breakers  sobbed 

With  low,  defiant  moan  ; 
When  instant,  every  bosom  throbbed, 

Held  by  one  sound  alone : 
Somewhere  —  somewhere  —  upon  the  air 

There  thrilled  a  human  groan. 

One  moment  —  and  they  clomb  the  wreck, 

And  there  a  ghastly  form 
Lay  huddled  on  the  heaving  deck, 

With  living  breath  still  warm,  — 
Too  dead  to  hear  the  shout  of  cheer 

That  mocked  the  dying  storm. 

And  when  they  lowered  him  from  the  ship 

With  kindly  care  as  can 
Befit  rough  hands,  across  his  lip 

A  whispered  ripple  ran  : 
They  stooped,  and  heard  the  slow-drawn  word 

Breathed,  —  "  Save  —  the  —  other  —  man  !  " 


128  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

We  —  we  who  once  on  gulfing  waves 
Of  doubt  were  tempest-tossed,  — 

We  who  are  safe  through  Him  who  saves 
At  such  transcendent  cost,  — 

Can  we,  while  yet  there  's  rescue,  let 
The  other  man  be  lost  ? 


THE   CHILD  JESUS. 


A   LL  placid  and  lonely  the  village 
•*•  ^     Of  Nazareth  slept  on  the  plain  ; 
No  husbandman  toiled  at  the  tillage, 

Nor  reaped  the  ripe  ears  of  the  grain ; 
No  vine-dressers  wrought  at  their  labors, 

Nor  paused  with  their  pruning-hooks  by 
The  slopes  were  as  silent  as  Tabor's, 

And  Tabor  was  still  as  the  skv. 


ii. 

No  voices  of  innocent  riot 

In  market-place,  hostel,  or  hut ; 
The  hum  of  the  craftsman  was  quiet, 

The  door  of  the  synagogue  shut. 
No  Alephs  and  Beths  were  heard  swelling 

From  the  school  of  the  scribe,  by  the  wall ; 
And  Joseph-the-carpenter's  dwelling 

Was  hushed  as  the  publican's  stall. 
9 


130  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 


in. 

'T  was  the  week  of  the  Passover :  only 

The  aged,  the  sickly,  the  blind, 
The  tottering  children,  and  lonely 

Young  mothers,  had  tarried  behind. 
To  the  sacredest  Feast  of  the  nation, 

Through  the  paths  that  their  fathers  had  trod, 
All  others,  with  paschal  oblation, 

Had  gone  to  the  city  of  God. 

IV. 

And  Mary,  —  to  every  beholder, 

Her  face  touched  with  wistfulest  dole, 
(Remembering  what  Simeon  had  told  her 

Of  the  sword  that  should  pierce  through  her  soul,) 
With  faith  yet  too  steadfast  to  falter, 

Though  sorely  with  mysteries  tried, 
Midst  the  worshippers  stood  at  the  altar, 

With  Jesus,  the  child,  by  her  side. 

v. 

The  seven  days'  festival  ended,  — 

Rites  finished  for  people  and  priest, 
The  throngs  from  the  Temple  descended, 

And  homeward  set  face  from  the  Feast. 
And  neighbor  held  converse  with  neighbor, 

Unwonted  and  simple  and  free, 


THE   CHILD  JESUS.  131 

As  northward  they  journeyed  toward  Tabor, 
Or  westward  they  turned  to  the  sea. 


VI. 

But  not  till  the  night-dews  were  falling, 

Did  Mary,  oft  questioning,  find, 
As  children  to  children  were  calling, 

That  Jesus  had  lingered  behind. 
He  vex  her  ?  —  the  mother  that  bore  Him  ? 

Or  veiled  it  some  portent  or  sign  ? 
For  oft  had  she  trembled  before  Him,  — 

Her  human  too  near  His  divine. 


VII. 

She  sought  midst  her  kinsfolk,  whose  pity 

Grew  tender  to  look  on  her  grief ; 
Then  back  through  the  streets  of  the  city 

She  hastened,  yet  found  not  relief. 
Thus  searching,  a  marvellous  story 

Her  ear  and  her  senses  beguiled,  — 
"  The  Rabbis,  gray-bearded  and  hoary, 

In  the  Temple  are  taught  by  a  child." 

VIII. 

0  marvel  of  womanly  weakness ! 

She  finds  Him,  —  fears,  sorrows  subside, 
And  Mary,  the  angel  of  meekness, 

In  petulance  pauses  to  chide :  — 


132  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 

"  Son,  wherefore  thus  tarry  to  gather 
About  Thee  the  curious  throng, 

Unheeding,  the  while,  that  Thy  father 
And  I  have  been  seeking  Thee  long  ?  " 

IX. 

A  look  so  reproachfully  tender, 

It  awed  while  it  melted  her  eye, 
He  cast,  as  He  hastened  to  render 

Subjection,  and  filial  reply  :  — 
"  Nay,  wherefore  perplexed  and  pursuing  ? 

Dost  thou  too,  my  mother,  forget, 
And  wist  not  the  Son  must  be  doing 

The  work  that  His  Father  hath  set  ?  " 


THE   BABY'S   MESSAGE. 


"  /^\H,  it  is  beautiful !  — Lifted  so  high,  — 

^-^  Up  where  the  stars  are,  —  into  the  sky, 
Out  of  the  fierce,  dark  grasp  of  pain, 
Into  the  rapturous  light  again ! 

ii. 
"  Whence  do  ye  bear  me,  shining  ones, 
Over  the  dazzling  paths  of  suns  ? 
"Wherefore  am  I  thus  caught  away 
Out  of  my  mother's  arms  to-day  ? 

in. 
"  Xever  before  have  I  left  her  breast, 
Never  been  elsewhere  rocked  to  rest ; 
Yet,  I  am  wrapped  in  a  maze  of  bliss  — 
Tell  me  what  the  mystery  is !  " 

IV. 

"  Baby-spirit,  whose  wondering  eyes 
Kindle,  ecstatic  with  surprise, 
This  is  the  ending  of  earthly  breath,  — 
This  is  what  mortals  mean  by  death. 


134  FOR  LOVE'S  SAKE. 


"  Far  in  the  silences  of  the  blue, 
See  where  the  splendor  pulses  through ; 
Thither,  released  from  a  world  of  sin, 
Thither  we  come  to  guide  thee  in : 

VI. 

"  In  through  each  seven-fold,  circling  band, 
In  where  the  white  child-angels  stand,  — 
Up  to  the  throne,  that  thou  may  est  see 
Him  who  was  once  a  babe  like  thee." 

VTI. 

"  Oh,  ye  seraphs  of  love  and  light ! 
Stay  for  a  little  your  lofty  flight : 
Stay,  and  adown  the  star-sown  track, 
Haste  to  my  weeper,  —  haste  ye  back ! 

VIII. 

"  Tell  her  how  filled  and  thrilled  I  am,  — 
Tell  her  how  wrapped  in  boundless  calm : 
Tell  her  I  soar,  I  sing,  I  shine,  — 
Tell  her  the  heaven  of  heavens  is  mine !  " 

IX. 

"  Tenderest  comforter,  —  faith's  own  word, 
Sweeter  than  ours,  her  heart  hath  heard : 
Softly  her  solaced  tears  now  fall ; 
Christ's  one  whisper  hath  told  her  all !  " 


FAR   OR   NEAR. 

TT  7IIEX  Monica  lay  on  her  dying  bed, 

*  »        Beyond  the  walls  of  Rome, 
And  saw  the  blue  Carnpagna-widths  that  spread 

Between  her  and  her  home  ; 

And  missed  the  yearning  eye  and  reverent  hand 

Of  friends  that  would  have  striven, 
Who,  with  love's  privilege,  should  nearest  stand 

To  one  so  close  to  heaven  ; 

She  heard  Augustine  sigh,  'twixt  tear  and  tear ; 

u  Ah,  blinded  that  we  are ! 
Had  1  but  known  —  I  had  not  borne  her  here, 

To  find  a  grave  so  far  — 

"  So  far  from  home !  "  —  she  turned  her  luminous  eyes 

On  her  beloved  one, 
With  something  of  rebuke  and  strange  surprise : 

k'  So  far  from  home  —  my  son  ? 

"  Why,  here  I  '11  lie  and  sleep  in  very  bliss  ; 

Because  this  Ostian  '  sod 
Is  just  as  close  as  home  to  Heaven  :  there  is 

No  Far,  nor  Near,  with  God !  " 

1  At  Ostia,  Monica,  the  mother  of  Saint  Augustine,  was  buried. 


A   CHILD'S   SERVICE. 

T  T  7HAT  if  the  little  Jewish  lad, 
*  *        That  summer  day,  had  failed  to  go 

Down  to  the  lake,  because  he  had 
So  small  a  store  of  loaves  to  show  ? 

"  The  press  is  great,"  —  he  might  have  said ; 

"  For  food  the  thronging  people  call ; 
And  what  were  my  few  loaves  of  bread,  — 

My  five  small  loaves  among  them  all  ?  " 

And  back  the  mother's  word  would  come, 
Her  coaxing  hand  upon  his  hair ; 

"  Yet  go,  for  here  be  food  for  some 
Among  the  hungry  children  there." 

If  from  his  home  the  lad  that  day 

His  five  small  loaves  had  failed  to  take, 

Would  Christ  have  wrought  —  can  any  say  ? 
That  miracle  beside  the  lake  ? 


THE   GRIT   OF   THE   MILLSTONE. 

"\7~EA,  we  give  thanks  for  daily  bread, 
■*■       With  words  that  breathe  a  filial  air, 

And  marvel  much  that  others  dare 
Eat  of  their  Father's  bounty  spread, 

Nor  bless  Him  for  His  tireless  care. 

The  wheaten  loaf,  with  new-fallen  snow 
Matched  in  its  whiteness,  calm  we  break, 
And  with  an  inward  zest  partake, 

(We  call  it  gratitude,)  and  know 

'T  is  only  ours  for  Christ's  dear  sake. 

Yet  let  a  hidden  dust  of  grit 

But  set  our  teeth  on  edge,  and  how 
Each  turns  to  each,  with  captious  brow, 

As  (of  all  thankfulness  acquit) 
It  were  our  right  to  murmur  now. 

Oh,  graceless  prodigals  that  we  be  ! 
Self-beggared  so,  and  turned  adrift 
To  starve,  or  back  to  come,  and  lift 

Appeals  for  hireling  fare,  shall  we 
Fret  if  a  sand-grain  mar  the  gift,  — 


138  FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 

When  we  should  take  the  menial's  place, 
And  meekly  say,  whate'er  befall : 
"  Give  as  Thou  wilt,  or  large,  or  small, 

Since  't  is  of  Thy  so  marvellous  grace 

That  Thou  shouldst  grant  Thy  gifts  at  all ! " 

So  hap  what  haps,  with  chastened  mind 
Let  us  receive  the  mercies  spread 
Around  us,  all  unmerited, 

Nor,  as  we  use  them,  seek  to  find 
The  grit  within  our  daily  bread. 


TOO   TIRED   TO   PRAY. 

i. 

r  I  ^00  tired  —  too  worn  to  pray, 

•*■       I  can  but  fold  my  hands, 
Entreating  in  a  voiceless  way, 

Of  Him  who  understands 
How  flesh  and  heart  succumb  — 

How  will  sinks,  weary  —  weak, 
"  Dear  Lord,  my  languid  lips  are  dumb, 

See  what  I  cannot  speak." 

ii. 

Just  as  the  wearied  child, 

Through  sobbing  pain  oppressed, 
Drops,  hushing  all  its  wailings  wild, 

Upon  its  mother's  breast  — 
So,  on  Thy  bosom,  I 

Would  cast  my  speechless  prayer, 
Nor  doubt  that  Thou  wilt  let  me  lie 

In  trustful  weakness  there. 


140  FOR  LOVE'S   SAKE. 


in. 


And  though  no  conscious  thought 

Before  me  rises  clear, 
The  prayer,  of  wordless  language  wrought, 

Thou  yet  wilt  deign  to  hear. 
For  when,  at  best,  I  plead  — 

Whatso  my  spirit  saith  — 
I  only  am  the  bruised  reed, 

And  Thou,  the  breathing  breath. 


IMMEDIATELY. 

r  I  ^HE  eertainest,  surest  thing  I  know, 

-*-       "Whatever,  what  else  may  yet  befall 
Of  blessings  or  bane,  of  weal  or  woe, 

Is  the  truth  that  is  fatefulest  far  of  all, 
That  the  Master  will  knock  at  my  door  some  night, 

And  there,  in  the  silence  hushed  and  dim, 
Will  wait  for  my  coming  with  lamp  alight, 

To  open  immediately  to  Him. 

I  wonder  if  I  at  His  tap  shall  spring 

In  eagerness  up,  and  cross  the  floor 
With  rapturous  step,  and  freely  fling, 

In  the  murk  of  the  midnight,  wide  the  door  ? 
Or  will  there  be  work  to  be  put  away  ? 

Or  the  taper,  that  burns  too  low,  to  trim  ? 
Or  something  that  craves  too  much  delay 

To  open  immediately  to  Him? 

Or  shall  I  with  whitened  fear  grow  dumb 
The  moment  I  hear  the  sudden  knock, 

And,  startled  to  think  He  hath  surely  come, 
Shall  falter  and  fail  to  find  the  lock, 


142  FOR   LOVE'S  SAKE. 

And  keep  Him  so  waiting,  as  I  stand, 
Irresolute,  while  my  senses  swim, 

Instead  of  the  bound  with  outstretched  hand, 
To  open  immediately  to  Him ! 

If  this  is  the  onty  thing  foretold 

Of  all  my  future  —  then,  I  pray, 
That,  quietly  watchful,  I  may  hold 

The  key  of  a  golden  faith  each  day 
Fast  shut  in  my  grasp,  that  when  I  hear 

His  step,  be  it  dawn  or  midnight  dim, 
Straightway  I  may  rise  without  a  fear, 

And  open  immediately  to  Him  ! 


WHO   KNOWETH? 

A    SONNET. 

T  T  OW  low  the  life  that  flutters  faint  within 

-*-  -*■  The  environed  soul  that  cannot  soar  and  shine 

In  the  rare  atmosphere  of  light  divine, 
By  reason  of  the  coils  that  flesh  doth  spin 
In  silken  weftage  round  it !  —  subtly  thin 

In  its  accretions,  —  yet  so  strong,  so  fine, 

It  proves  a  chrysalis'-web,  that  can  entwine, 
And  wrap  it  close,  in  darkness,  doubt,  and  sin ! 
But  the  day  comes,  when  some  mysterious  power 

Dissolves  imprisoning  circumstance,  and  lo ! 
The  soul  springs  upward,  an  embodied  breath, 

Exultant ;  and  in  that  supremest  hour, 
When  earth's  last  filament  is  snapped,  we  know 

That  what  we  heretofore  called  Life,  was  Death  ! 


University  Press :   John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


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